Jacqueline laid Grandma down, very gently, and put away the rejected broth, which was too precious to be thrown out, and rinsed the thick cup. As she stood drying it, she found that she was softly crying.

Oh, it was too dreadful! Poor little old Grandma, who had never been able to relish tea drunk from thick crockery, was begging now in her illness for the delicate green cup that had been all that was left of her precious wedding china—and it was Jacqueline, in her moment of bad temper, who had broken it! Once more Jacqueline felt as she had felt long ago, when she had struck the little lap dog. Quite frankly she wept into the dish towel that she was using.

But now she must see Caroline right away. Whatever else they went without, there at the farm, Grandma must have the thin china for which she pined. Wildly Jacqueline thought of running away to Longmeadow that very night. But sober second thought showed her the folly of such a plan. Even if Aunt Martha were willing to let her go, she hadn’t the courage, after her former experience, to trudge through the onion fields alone, in the dark.

A very subdued Jacqueline, she greeted Aunt Martha on her return.

“Grandma’s been all right,” she said. “Only I couldn’t get her to take her broth.”

Aunt Martha clicked her tongue against her teeth. Black smudges of weariness showed beneath her unsmiling eyes.

“It’s that way, half the time,” she told Jacqueline. “Sick folks get notions. I’ll see if I can coax her to take it.”

But when Aunt Martha came out of the parlor, Jacqueline knew, by the worried look she wore, that she hadn’t been successful.

Jacqueline ran to her—she couldn’t help it!—and threw her arms about her.

“Oh, Aunt Martha!” she whimpered. “It’s all my fault. She wants her green-dragon cup—and I broke it. I’ve just got to go to the village to-morrow and get her another.”

Aunt Martha held Jacqueline close.

“There, there,” she said, and patted her. “No use crying over spilt milk, child. There isn’t another of those old green-dragon cups to be had for love nor money.”

“But I can get her a thin cup, I know I can,” begged Jacqueline. “Please let me go try!”

“You haven’t the money, Jackie.”

The words were on Jacqueline’s tongue: “I know how to get it!” She bit them back just in time.

“Grandma’ll get over the notion,” Aunt Martha comforted. “Just put the whole thing out of your mind, now.”

But Jacqueline didn’t. She dreamed all night of green dragons off the cup that were chasing her, and the green dragons turned into green banknotes, and she wheeled a barrowful of them home to Aunt Martha and Grandma.

She woke in the morning, quite determined.

“It’s a pretty cool day,” she told Aunt Martha. “I could walk to Longmeadow easy as not. Honest, it wouldn’t tire me a bit, and I’ll be back in time to get supper.”

Aunt Martha smiled, as if in spite of herself. “If you aren’t the most persistent young one!” she said.

“Can’t I?” begged Jacqueline.

Aunt Martha hesitated.

“You’ve worked real faithful,” she said at last. “I guess if it’s any treat to go to Longmeadow, you ought to have it.”

“Oh goody, Aunt Martha!”

“Don’t crack my ribs, Jackie! You hug like a young bear.”

“I’ll start right after dinner——”

“No, you won’t, child. Ralph’s got to drive up to the north end of town. You can ride up with him ’bout two o’clock. He’ll pick you up at the Post Office long ’bout five. The library’s open to-day. You can sit in there when you get tired looking for cups in Miss Crevey’s, and Cyrus Hatton’s, and the Post Office. I suppose that’s what you’re calculating to do?”

“Y-yes,” Jacqueline admitted.

Privately she assured herself that it was no lie that she told. She certainly would go and hunt for cups in the three Longmeadow shops, but she would go only after she had seen Caroline.

At half past one by the kitchen clock, Jacqueline cast a proud glance at the bowl of stewed goose-berries, cooling on the table by the window, at the well-brushed floor, and the well-scrubbed sink, all the work of her hands. Then she skipped happily up the narrow stair, but softly, not to disturb Grandma, and in her old room, over the parlor, made ready for her trip to Longmeadow. She felt that bare ankles and Peggy Janes did not quite fit with the importance of her mission. She put on a pair of Caroline’s cotton socks, and the identical pink and white checked gingham in which she first had seen Caroline on the train.

As a last touch of elegance, she hunted for a hair-ribbon, and during the search in a top drawer, not so tidy as it might be, she came upon the box of Japanese lacquer, which she had half forgotten. Caroline’s treasures were in that box—the trinkets, the letters, the photograph—but of far more interest to Jacqueline was the old pink hair-ribbon bound round the box. She slipped it off, smoothed it across her knee, and tied her hair with a rather lop-sided bow. She didn’t altogether admire the effect, when she looked at herself in the mirror, but it was the best she could do, and as Grandma liked to say: “Angels could do no more.”

The drive into Longmeadow was not the jolliest pleasure trip imaginable. The road was dusty, and the little old car wheezed till you pitied it almost as if it were human. Besides, Ralph let it be clearly understood that he didn’t see the need for a girl, who did nothing but putter round the house, to take an afternoon off, and leave his mother to do everything. If Dickie, or Neil, now, had wanted a holiday, that would be different. Ralph, you see, was quite on the way to being a man.

“You make me tired,” Jacqueline told him loftily.

“Is that so?” retorted Ralph. “Then it’s more than the work you do will ever make you.”

After that, no more words passed between them. With chill dignity, for all the scantness of her faded skirts, Jacqueline descended from the car at the foot of Longmeadow Street.

“I’ll be at the Post Office at five o’clock,” she said, in the tone in which haughty society ladies are supposed to say: “Home, James!”

“You’d better be, for I shan’t wait for you,” Ralph called back, before he rattled away in a cloud of dust.

Well, maybe he’d behave a little more respectfully by and bye, Jacqueline told herself darkly, as she trudged up the street. When he saw her hiring two nurses—and having huge baskets of grapes sent up from Boston for Grandma—and a lovely silk dressing-gown—and a wheelchair—and a down coverlet—and a darling invalid’s table, with egg-shell china!

Once more Jacqueline lost herself in gorgeous dreams of what she was going to do—dreams that blew up like a burst balloon, as she found herself actually within sight of the Gildersleeve place. She halted short. The house looked so big, above its surrounding elms, and she felt so little, all at once, in Caroline’s skimpy gingham. Perhaps she had better not go in at the front gate. Perhaps she had better slip in through the gap in the hedge, as she had done that earlier time. Perhaps by great good luck she might find Caroline in the summer house.

But she found the summer house quite orderly and empty, and the garden was very still. Perhaps Aunt Eunice was taking a nap. She could see through the branches of the trees that the shutters were closed at the windows—all the windows at that side of the house. Or perhaps, better still, Aunt Eunice and Cousin Penelope had gone out to pay calls. If only they had gone out, and left Caroline at home!

Buoyed up with this hope, Jacqueline scurried along the neat path through the gay-colored, sweet-scented garden, threaded the shrubbery, crossed the lawn, and ran lightly up the steps of the cool, wide porch. The white paneled door, with its ancient fan-light, was firmly closed. She grasped the big shining brass knocker, and without waiting for her courage to ooze, rapped loudly.

She waited. She grew very conscious of her skimpy dress and her rumpled hair-ribbon. She wondered what she should say, if the maid, when she came, refused to call “Miss Jacqueline,” and went and summoned Cousin Penelope.

She knocked again timidly.

No one came. The lawn and the garden were very still. She heard a pear fall ripely from a tree. A car drove by on the road. Moments passed. She felt her cheeks begin to burn. She was as angry as if she had known that people stood behind the door, deliberately letting her knock and knock, unanswered, because her dress was faded and scant. She grabbed that knocker, and she beat such a tattoo on the old door as surely it had seldom known in its venerable life.

Rat-tat-tat banged the knocker, with horrid brazen clangor, until Jacqueline had to stop for breath. She was now more white than red. Of course they must be there—the maids, at least. Off their job, because Aunt Eunice had gone out. She’d show ’em.

Rat-tat-tat went the knocker, and then Jacqueline’s feet, in the scuffed sneakers, were kicking at the door, and Jacqueline’s hands were thumping futilely upon the smooth white panels.

“Let me in!” cried Jacqueline, afraid, she hardly knew of what. “Let me in—in—IN!”

She stopped suddenly. She had heard footsteps on the walk below the porch. She turned, and there stood a stout, solemn little girl, with tow-colored hair, in a neat white frock and sandals.

“That won’t do a bit of good,” said the little girl.

“Smarty!” said Jacqueline. “How do you know?”

“Smarty yourself,” answered the little girl. “I know ’cause I live next door. I’m Eleanor Trowbridge, and Jacqueline told me to come here and play in her summer house while they’re gone.”

“Gone?” Jacqueline echoed foolishly.

“Sure,” said Eleanor. “Don’t you suppose they’d come out and tell you to stop banging that knocker, if they were here? They all went off yesterday, and Jacqueline took Mildred with her. They’ve gone way off to the seashore, and they won’t be back till it’s time for school again.”