Smoothly and softly the limousine glided out from among the brick buildings of Baring Junction—not a great many of them!—and along a country road which was edged sometimes with a rail fence, and sometimes with a stone wall, but always with a green wayside growth of blackberry and elderbush, alder, and in the low places, young shoots of willow. Pastures slipped by the windows of the car, and farm-yards, and meadows. Once they drove slowly over a wooden bridge, with a roof and sides that made a tunnel where their wheels echoed in a rumbling, hollow fashion; and Caroline wondered if Mildred were afraid.

Then they came to a wide street, with green lawns between the sidewalk and the road, and elms that almost met above them. The street was bordered with big comfortable houses, white or cream or red, which were set well apart in lawns and gardens, unlike the cramped suburban houses to which Caroline was accustomed.

“This is Longmeadow Street, dear,” explained Aunt Eunice. “That brick house with the horse-chestnut trees before it, is the John Gildersleeve place, where your father was born, and his father before him. And here’s the William Gildersleeve place—our place—and we’ve got home.”

A smooth white driveway carried them behind a tall hedge of box. The color and fragrance of an old-fashioned garden were on the left hand, and on the right a plushy green lawn, and a white house, very square and big and substantial, with windows set with many panes of glass.

“It’s such an e-normous house,” thought Caroline, in a panic.

Would there be a butler? In the motion pictures to which Cousin Delia had sometimes taken Caroline, there were often butlers, and they were always very proud and fat. And would she find a lot of knives and forks at her place at table and not know which one to use first? And would she be found out at once and sent away in disgrace? She hoped not—at least not until to-morrow! She couldn’t stand it to meet any more new people today, now that she had found Aunt Eunice so kind.

They went from the porch through a wide doorway with a paneled door and a big brass knocker, into a long hall with a curving staircase. The dark floor was as shiny as glass, and the white paint of the woodwork was as dazzling as snow. The furniture was of dark wood, with red winey gleams beneath its polished surface.

There was a tall case of drawers, which seemed by their weight to have bowed the slim legs on which they rested, and a table—no, half a table—against the wall. On the table were two brass candlesticks, and between them a dull blue bowl, which held some little, pale pink roses. Oh, if only Muzzy had not taught her that she simply must not stare! There was so much to see in this wonderful house!

At the top of the curved staircase was a long, cool hall, with cream white doors on either side. Aunt Eunice herself opened the third door on the right.

“This will be your room, my dear,” she said, and motioned for Caroline to follow her across the threshold.

To Caroline it seemed as if she stepped suddenly into a quiet green pool, the room was so still and cool and goldeny green. There was a dull green border to the oyster white rug that covered the floor, and a pattern of wreathed leaves picked out in green upon the pale gray furniture. Green leaves where golden figures of canaries were half hidden, made a deep frieze above the cool, pale paper with which the walls were hung. The curtains at the windows and upon the low book-shelves, the cushions of the chairs, the covering upon the bed, all had the same pattern of green leaves and gold canaries. Outside the window that was opposite the door, were the green, sibilant leaves of an elm, and through them came the late sunshine in a powdery dust of gold.

Caroline said nothing. She just stared, in spite of all that her mother had taught her. Then she turned toward Aunt Eunice a quivering little face.

“My room?” she asked.

“Yes, darling.”

“Doesn’t anybody have to sleep with me?”

“Not in that narrow bed, child. You’re not afraid to be alone?”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Caroline. “I like to be alone with my thoughts, and all last winter——”

She stopped. She could feel her heart beating fast with the terror of a narrow escape. For she had almost said that all last winter, in Cousin Delia’s little house, she hadn’t had a corner to call her own, no, nor a minute of time.

“Never mind, dear,” said Aunt Eunice and patted her shoulder gently.

But there was a little pucker between Aunt Eunice’s eyebrows. She was going to tell Penelope later just what she thought of this Aunt Edith (not on the Gildersleeve side of the family, thank goodness!) who had packed that shy little sensitive girl off to a boarding school!

“You’ll want to rest a bit before dinner,” Aunt Eunice filled up the awkward little pause, “and wash, too, after the train. There’s the door to the bathroom, over by the dressing-table. Can you manage by yourself, or shall I send Sallie to help you?”

“I can manage, thank you!” Caroline assured her.

To her own ears her voice sounded dry, and oh! she didn’t want to seem ungrateful, when her heart was just bursting with joy that was almost rapture. So, as Aunt Eunice turned away, Caroline slipped up to her side and laid a hand on her arm.

“Thank you!” she whispered shyly. “It’s—it’s like a dream room and I—I’ll take awful good care of everything. I can make my own bed,” she added proudly. “And I can sweep and dust as nice as anybody.”

Aunt Eunice beamed approvingly.

“Why, what a sensible school your aunt must have sent you to,” she said. “But you needn’t do tasks in vacation, little girl. Sallie will take care of your room. Now wash your hands and brush your hair, and bring a good appetite with you to the dinner table.”

With a nod and a smile—and Aunt Eunice’s smile was the kind that you waited for eagerly, because it made her whole face brighten—Aunt Eunice left the room and closed the door behind her. Very carefully Caroline put her coat (Jacqueline’s coat that was!) and her hat and the satin candy box full of doll-clothes down upon a chair, and then, with Mildred in her arms, she walked slowly and almost a-tiptoe with reverence round the room.

There were pictures on the walls—lovely fairytale pictures, such as she had seen in windows of gorgeous shops, with cobalt blue seas and airy mountains, towered castles and dark thickets shot through with sunshine. There were pretty things on the dressing-table—little trays and boxes of thin china, patterned in green and gold, two slender perfume bottles of cool green glass, a lovely little lady in brocaded silk, with her hair piled high, whose skirts when lifted revealed a hidden pin-cushion. On the writing-desk by the window there was a green blotter with gold and green leather corners, and a brass owl, which was an inkwell, and a brass turtle which miraculously was a stamp box. On the little shelves of the desk were sheets of creamy paper, large and small, and engraved on each sheet was the legend: The Chimnies, Longmeadow, Massachusetts.

“Oh, dear,” thought Caroline, “if only I could write to somebody on this ducky paper, but I mustn’t ever, because my handwriting isn’t Jackie’s, and it would give us all away.”

With a little sigh, she turned from the desk and looked out at the windows. There were two of them. The western window looked into the elms. The northern window looked across some fields to a low mountain, a great heap of dark trees and raw red cliffs, which humped itself like a gigantic beast against the sky.

Caroline was gazing at the mountain, when there came a rap at the door, and a neat middle-aged maid, who must be Sallie, brought in her suitcase (Jacqueline’s suitcase!) and the hatbox. Sallie also offered to help Caroline wash her face. Dear me! If Sallie had known the little girl was Caroline, and not Jacqueline, she would have known that at Cousin Delia’s Caroline had not only washed her own face, but several other little faces besides.

After Sallie had gone, Caroline opened the door and went into the bathroom. It was not a bit like Cousin Delia’s bathroom, with its golden oak woodwork and its zinc tub which Caroline had so often scrubbed. This bathroom was all white tiles and shining nickel, and had a porcelain tub big enough for half a dozen Carolines. On the nickel rods were big towels and little towels and middle-sized towels, thick towels and thin towels, rough towels and smooth towels, all marked with a beautiful big G.

Caroline took off the henna-colored frock most particularly, and she washed her face with some very faintly scented white soap, not forgetting to wash behind her ears, and she washed her neck and her hands and her knees, too, but she decided to let her feet go until after dinner. Then she opened her suitcase (really Jacqueline’s!) and feeling a little apologetic, even though it was Jacqueline’s own plan that she was carrying out, she took Jacqueline’s pretty blue leather traveling-case, with its ivory implements, and she made her hair smooth and her hands tidy.

Caroline, you see, was a gentle little girl, and in the haphazard months at Cousin Delia’s she had not forgotten the careful teachings of her gentle little mother. If she had, her whole story might have turned out very differently. She made herself now as fresh and tidy as possible. Then she sat down in the low rocker beside the bookcase, and looked at the books—such a lot of books, not new ones, she could see, but new to her, bound volumes of St. Nicholas, and a whole set of Miss Alcott, books by Laura E. Richards, and Miss Molesworth, Kate Douglas Wiggin, and Juliana Ewing.

She was dipping into “We and the World” when she heard a knock at her door, and there on the threshold, not waiting to be asked in, stood Cousin Penelope. Now that her hat was off, Caroline saw that she had pretty, fair hair, but she had also a forehead so high and white that it gave her rather a forbidding look.

“Day-dreaming, Jacqueline?” said Cousin Penelope briskly.

“I—I was looking at the books,” Caroline explained, as she rose hastily. “I never saw so many.”

Penelope pursed her lips. To herself she said that she must mention to her mother that “Aunt Edie” was evidently an outdoor sort, without any claim to culture. Didn’t it prove the point, when Cousin Jack’s poor little daughter was so unused to books that she was quite excited over three shelves of old-fashioned, shabby juveniles?

But to Caroline, Penelope merely said:

“Those were my books, Jacqueline, when I was your age. Your father and I often read them together on rainy days. You’ll have plenty of time to read them this summer; but you must come now, for dinner will be waiting.”

Penelope spoke crisply, coolly, and her tone made something inside Caroline curl up tight, like a sea-anemone when you touch it.

“Cousin Penelope doesn’t like me,” she told herself.