Cynthia's enthusiasm was contagious, and Edith, leaving bureau drawers standing open and boxes uncovered, hurried off to find the desired articles.
Cynthia was soon dressed in exact reproduction of Aunt Betsey's usual costume, with a figured black-lace veil over her face, and, as luck would have it, Jack was at that moment seen coming up the drive. She hastily descended to the parlor, where she and Edith were discovered in conversation when Jack entered the house.
"Holloa, Aunt Betsey!" he exclaimed, as he kissed her unsuspectingly. "Have you come back?"
"Yes, Jackie," said a prim New England voice with a slightly provincial accent. "I thought I'd like to hear about those little orphan chicks, and so I said to Silas, said I, Silas—"
Edith darted from her chair to a distant window, and Cynthia was obliged to break off abruptly, or she would have laughed aloud. Jack, however, took no notice. The mention of the chickens was enough for him.
"Don't you want to come down and see the machine? I say, Aunt Betsey, you were a regular brick to send me the money. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes, Jackie, and I hope you are reading the book carefully. You will learn a great deal from it, about hens."
"Yes. Well, I haven't got any hens yet. Look out for these stairs, Aunt Betsey. They're rather dangerous."
This was too much for Cynthia. To be warned about the cellar stairs, over which she gayly tripped at least a dozen times a day, was the crowning joke of the performance. She sat down on the lowest step and shouted with laughter. Jack, who was studying his thermometer, turned in surprise.
It was too good. Cynthia tossed up her veil, and turned her crimson face to her brother.