just returning from a trip to Europe.
The bathers were making merry in the waves as they returned, and Aunt Crete’s wistful look made Donald ask whether she felt too tired to take another dip, but she declared she was not one bit tired.
She came from her bath with shining eyes and triumphant mien. Whatever happened now, she had been in bathing twice. She felt like quite an experienced bather, and she could dream of that wonderful experience of being lifted high above the swells in Donald’s strong young arms.
She obediently took her nap, and surrendered herself to the hands of the maid to have the finishing touches put to her toilet. It was the soft gray voile that she elected to wear to-night, and Donald admired her when she emerged from her room in the dress, looking every inch a lady.
A knock sounded at the door before he had had time to give Aunt Crete a word of his admiration; but his eyes had said enough, and she felt a glow of humble pride in her new self, the self that he had created out of what she had always considered an unusually plain old woman. With the consciousness of her becoming attire upon her she turned with mild curiosity to see who had knocked; and, behold, her sister and niece stood before her!
The day had been passed by them in melancholy speculations and the making and abandoning of many plans of procedure. After careful deliberation they at last concluded that there was nothing to be done but go down and find out who these people really were, and if possible allay the ghost of their fears and set themselves free from their dull little room.
“If it should be Aunt Crete and Donald, we’ll just settle them up and send them off at once, won’t we, mother?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Burton with an angry snap to her eyes. “Trust me to settle with your Aunt Crete if it’s really her. But I can’t think it is. It isn’t like Crete one bit to leave her duty. She’s got a lot of work to do, and she never leaves her work till it’s done. It must be some one else. What if it should be those folks you admire so much? I’ve been thinking. We had some New York cousins by the name of Ward. It might be one of them, and Donald might have gone to them first, and they’ve brought him down here. I can’t think he’s very much, though. But we’ll just hope for the best, anyway, till we find out. If it’s Aunt Crete, I shall simply talk to her till she is brought to her senses, and make her understand that she’s got to go right home. I’ll tell her how she’s mortifying you, and spoiling your chances of a good match, perhaps——”
“O ma!” giggled Luella in admiration.
“I’ll tell her she must tell Donald she’s got to go right home, that the sea air don’t agree with her one bit—it goes to her head or something like that; and then we’ll make him feel it wouldn’t be gallant in him not to take her home. That’s easy enough, if ’tis them.”
“But ma, have you thought about your sprained ankle? How’ll they think you got over so quick? S’posing it shouldn’t be Aunt Crete.”
“Well, I’ll tell her the swelling’s gone down, and all of a sudden something seemed to slip back into place again, and I’m all right.”
This was while they were buttoning and hooking each other into their best and most elaborate garments for the peradventure that the people they were to meet might prove to be of patrician class.
They had been somewhat puzzled how to find their possible relatives after they were attired for the advance on the enemy, but consultation with the functionary in the office showed them that, whoever Miss Ward and Donald Grant might be, they surely were at present occupying the apartments on the second floor front.
For one strenuous moment after the elevator had left them before the door of the private parlor they had carefully surveyed each other, fastening a stubborn hook here, putting up a stray rebellious lock there, patting a puff into subordination. Mrs. Burton was arrayed in an elaborate tucked and puffed and belaced lavender muslin whose laborious design had been attained through hours of the long winter evenings past. Luella wore what she considered her most “fetching” garment, a long, scant, high-waisted robe of fire-red crape, with nothing to relieve its glare, reflected in staring hues in her already much-burned nose and cheeks. Her hair had been in preparation all the afternoon, and looked as if it was carved in waves and puffs out of black walnut, so closely was it beset with that most noticeable of all invisible devices, an invisible net.
They entered, and stood face to face with the wonderful lady in the gray gown, whose every line and graceful fold spoke of the skill of a foreign tailor. And then, strange to say, it was Aunt Crete who came to herself first.
Perfectly conscious of her comely array, and strong in the strength of her handsome nephew who stood near to protect, she suddenly lost all fear of her fretful sister and bullying niece, and stepped forward with an unconscious grace of welcome that must have been hers all the time, or it never would have come to the front in this crisis.
“Why, here you are at last, Luella! How nice you look in your red crape! Why, Carrie, I’m real glad you’ve got better so you could come down. How is your ankle? And here is Donald. Carrie, can’t you see Hannah’s looks in him?”
Amazement and embarrassment struggled in the faces of mother and daughter. They looked at Aunt Crete, and they looked at Donald, and then they looked at Aunt Crete again. It couldn’t be, it wasn’t, yet it was, the voice of Aunt Crete, kind and forgiving, and always thoughtful for every one, yet with a new something in it. Or was it rather the lack of something? Yes, that was it, the lack of a certain servile something that neither Luella nor her mother could name, yet which made them feel strangely ill at ease with this new-old Aunt Crete.
They looked at each other bewildered, and then back at Aunt Crete again, tracing line by line the familiar features in their new radiance of happiness, and trying to conjure back the worried V in her forehead, and the slinky sag of her old gowns. Was the world turned upside down? What had happened to Aunt Crete?
“Upon my word, Lucretia Ward, is it really you?” exclaimed her sister, making a wild dash into the conversation, determined to right herself and everything else if possible. She felt like a person suddenly upset in a canoe, and she struggled wildly to get her footing once more if there was any solid footing anywhere, with her sister Crete standing there calmly in an imported gown, her hair done up like a fashion-plate, and a millionaire’s smile on her pleasant face.
But Luella was growing angry. What did Aunt Crete mean by masquerading round in that fashion and making them ashamed before this handsome young man? and was he really their Western cousin? Luella felt that a joke was being played upon her, and she always resented jokes—at least, unless she played them herself.
Then Donald came to the front, for he feared for Aunt Crete’s poise. She must not lose her calm dignity and get frightened. There was a sharp ring in the other aunt’s voice, and the new cousin looked unpromising.
“And is this my Aunt Carrie? And my Cousin Luella?” He stepped forward, and shook hands pleasantly.
“I am glad to be able to speak with you at last,” he said as he dropped Luella’s hand, “though it’s not the first time I’ve seen you, nor heard your voice, either, you know.”
Luella looked up puzzled, and tried to muster her scattered graces, and respond with her ravishing society air; but somehow the ease and grace of the man before her overpowered her. And was he really her cousin? She tried to think what he could mean by having seen and talked with her before. Surely he must
