href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@46048@[email protected]#chXXXIX" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">The End of a Journey

But just as she reached the Gap, Caroline came pattering out of the dark and clutched her—

“Jacqueline! It’s I—Cousin Penelope. Don’t be frightened”

“Don’t! Don’t!” wailed Jacqueline and clasped Aunt Martha tight. “Don’t you cry. There’s nothing to cry about”

At Chicago, on a hot afternoon in early summer, two little girls got aboard the car on the Limited that was bound through to Boston. Both little girls had bobbed brown hair and brown eyes and both were going on eleven, but there all likeness between them ended.

The larger of the two little girls wore a black silk frock embroidered with amber-colored butterflies and curlicues, and black silk knickerbockers. The socks that stopped just below her sturdy brown knees were of black silk, and her black sandals had tiny buckles of onyx. She wore a hat of fine black straw, and in her arms she carried a little black vanity bag, two big books with colored pictures on their jackets, and a box tied up in white paper and gilt cord that screamed—and smelled—of chocolates.

Before her walked a solemn brown porter, laden with suitcases and handbags and hatboxes. Behind her walked a worried young woman, in a fresh blue linen suit. Thus attended the little girl passed along the aisle, with the air of a good-natured young princess, and vanished into the drawing-room at the end of the car. When the solemn-looking porter came out of the drawing-room, he was no longer solemn but smiling, and the piece of silver that he pocketed was large and round.

The smaller of the little girls had watched this progress admiringly, but without envy. She was a serious little girl, and this was her first long journey in the world. She sat