AUNT ALICE was going away for a visit of two or three weeks.
Her trunk was on the little front porch waiting for Farmer Dodds, whenever, with his fat white horse and rattling spring wagon he should make his appearance coming over the hill.
Rose seated herself on the trunk, and lightly tapping her heels against the side, looked off in a dreamy way toward the dusty road that wound down from among tree-covered hills, on its way past their own white cottage with rose-vines climbing over the small square windows, and so prettily set down in the midst of an old-fashioned garden, with a broad, straight path leading from the gate to the porch, and at that season bordered with asters of all colors.
Farmer Dodds was not in sight, and Rose, now turning toward the left, followed with her eyes the line of the road, where, having left the slope of hill behind, it struck out across the level. Stubble fields down there were yellow, the green of the meadows was turning into a soft pale brown, and far off the horizon was like a rising mist of purple.
"Aunt Alice," said Rose, stopping the tapping of her heels, "some way the sunshine down yonder looks almost as if you could take it in your hands."
"Tangible light?" said Miss Alice, coming to the porch to look abroad.
"What's that?" asked Rose.
"Why, just the opposite of 'darkness that could be felt', I think."
"Is it?" said Rose gravely. "But, aunt Alice," she continued, "I wonder what I'll do without you here to ask questions of. And how will I ever get along without the Saturday afternoon talks—I've got so used to them, you know. I'll just be awfully lonesome."
"We'll have to plan a way to help that," returned her aunt. "Let me see—how would you like to write a letter to me on the first Saturday? Only you must be careful to write what you would be most apt to talk about if I were here."