title="8"/> would be the best thing in the world for them all.

Elaine Marshall, whom Peggy waylaid as she came home from her work, not long after the plan had been broached, gave it her immediate approval, pluckily trying to hide her consternation at the thought of Friendly Terrace without Peggy. But, in spite of her brave fluency, something in her eyes betrayed her, as she knew when Peggy slipped an arm about her waist and hugged her remorsefully.

“Now, Peggy Raymond, don’t go to being sorry for me, and spoiling your fun. You mustn’t fancy you’re so indispensable,” she ended with a feeble laugh.

“If only you had two months’ vacation, instead of two weeks,” mourned Peggy.

“I’m lucky to get two weeks, when I’ve been in your uncle’s office such a little while. And, anyway, Peggy, I couldn’t leave home for long as things are, even if my vacation lasted all summer.”

And it really was Elaine Marshall, speaking in that cheery, matter-of-fact tone, scorning the luxury of self-pity, conquering the temptation to look on herself as an object of sympathy. Peggy regarded her with affectionate admiration, quite unaware how important a factor she herself had been in bringing about a transformation almost beyond belief.

After twenty-four hours of reflection Friendly Terrace was practically a unit on the question. The fathers saw no reason why the girls should not go, and the mothers found a variety of reasons why they should. The question of a chaperon had been a temporary stumbling-block, for none of the mothers especially concerned had felt that she could be spared from home. But before the difficulty had begun to seem serious, Amy had exclaimed: “I believe Aunt Abigail would jump at the chance.”

“Aunt Abigail!” Priscilla repeated, with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t remember ever hearing you speak of her.”

“She’s father’s aunt, you know, but I always call her Aunt Abigail.”

There was a pause. “Then she must be a good deal like a grandmother,” Ruth hinted delicately.

“Why, yes. Aunt Abigail is seventy-five or six, I don’t remember which.”

Priscilla and Ruth looked at Peggy, their manner implying that the crisis demanded the exercise of her undeniable tact. Peggy made a brave effort to be equal to the emergency.

“Don’t you think, Amy, dear,” she hazarded, “that it would be a little trying to the nerves of an old lady to chaperon a lot of noisy girls–”

Amy’s burst of laughter was such an unexpected interruption that Peggy’s considerate appeal halted midway and the other girls stared. And Amy screwing her eyes tightly shut, as was her habit when highly amused, finished her laugh at her leisure, before she deigned an explanation.

“You’d know how funny that sounded if you’d ever seen Aunt Abigail. She’s along in her seventies, so I suppose you would call her old, but in a good many ways she’s as young as we are–Oh, yes, younger, as young as Peggy’s Dorothy.”

There was something fascinating in the idea of a chaperon, characterized by such singular extremes. The girls listened breathlessly.

“Mother says it’s all because she’s lived in such an unusual way. You see, her husband was an artist, and they used to travel around everywhere. Sometimes they’d board at a hotel, and sometimes they’d have rooms, and do light housekeeping, and, then again, they’d camp, and live in a tent for months at a time. And Aunt Abigail hasn’t any idea of getting up to breakfast at any special hour, or being on hand to dinner.”

The expression of anxious interest was fading gradually from the faces of the three listeners, and cheerful anticipation was taking its place.

“She forgets everything she promises to do,” Amy continued. “It isn’t because she’s old, either. She’s been that way ever since mother can remember. She’s always losing things, and getting into the most awful scrapes. We should have to look after her, just as if she were a child. And then she’s the jolliest soul you ever knew, and she’s a regular Arabian Nights’ entertainment when it comes to telling stories.”

After the vision of a nervous old lady who would demand that the house be very quiet, and get into a nervous flutter if a meal were delayed fifteen minutes, Amy’s realistic sketch was immensely appealing. “Girls,” Peggy exclaimed, “I move we invite Aunt Abigail to chaperon our crowd!” And the motion was carried not only unanimously, but with an enthusiasm Aunt Abigail would certainly have found gratifying, though it might have surprised her, in view of her grand-niece’s candid statement.

Peggy had pleaded to be allowed to take Dorothy along. “I can’t bear to think of that darling child spending July and August in a fourth-floor flat, looking down on the tops of street-cars. And I don’t think she’d bother you girls a bit.”

“Bother!” cried Amy generously. “We need something to fall back on for rainy days, and Dorothy’s a picnic in herself. Between her and Aunt Abigail we’ll be entertained whatever happens.”

Priscilla, too, had suggested an addition to the party. “You’ve heard me speak of Claire Fendall, girls. I saw a good deal of her at the conservatory, and she’s as sweet as she can be. Well, we’ve talked of her visiting me this vacation, and I don’t feel quite like announcing that I’m going off for the entire summer without asking her if she’d like to go too.”

The girls had fallen in with the suggestion with the thoughtless cordiality characteristic of their years. It was Amy who suggested later to Peggy that sometimes she thought there was such a thing as a girl’s being too sweet. “I met Claire Fendall once when I went with Priscilla to a recital,” Amy remarked. “And–Oh, well, I’m not one of the people who like honey for breakfast every morning of the year.” But the only reply this Delphic utterance called forth from Peggy was a reproachful pinch.

In a week’s time they were ready. A special delivery letter had carried to Mrs. Leighton the grateful acceptance of her offer, and the keys had come by express the following day, rattling about in a tin box, and with the tantalizing air of secrecy and suggestiveness which always attaches itself to a bunch of keys. Aunt Abigail had been invited to chaperon the party and had accepted by telegraph. Peggy’s father had made an excuse for a business trip to New York, and had brought his small granddaughter home with him, full of the liveliest anticipation regarding her summer. And Priscilla had received a twenty-page letter from Claire Fendall, declaring that it would be perfectly heavenly to spend two months anywhere in Priscilla’s society, and that nothing in the world could possibly prevent her from coming.

There had been no time during that week for lounging on porches, or swinging in hammocks. Afternoon naps were sternly eliminated from the daily program, and the day began early enough to satisfy the originator of the maxim which gives us to understand that early rising is synonymous with health, wealth and wisdom. Trunks were packed, amid prolonged discussion as to what to take and what to leave behind. The mothers, as is the way of mothers the world over, insisted on warm flannels, and wraps, rubbers and rain-coats, to provide for all extremes of weather. Peggy’s suggestion that the country was a fine place for wearing out old clothes, had been received with enthusiasm, and faded ginghams and lawns of a bygone style, far outnumbered the new frocks with which the Terrace girls had made ready for the season.

The June day appointed for the departure