Dr. Graydon in Los Angeles sent Judge Holden a telegram, brimful of dental technicalities, that convinced the Judge (Aunt Martha needed no convincing!) that it was indeed Jacqueline Gildersleeve who had posed all summer as Caroline Tait. So Jacqueline, secure in the thought that two people in Longmeadow knew that she was the little girl she claimed to be, waited at the Conway farm for the coming of Aunt Edith and Uncle Jimmie, who should set her entirely right in the eyes of all the rest of the whispering village. You can easily believe that she was now counting the days until the day, some time in September, when they should come.

Caroline, too, at Monk’s Bay was counting the days, only where Jacqueline told herself joyously: “One day nearer!” Caroline was sighing: “One day less!”

She hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry when Cousin Penelope, in her sudden fashion, told her one afternoon that they were going back to Longmeadow day after to-morrow. Caroline hated to leave the downs, where she had had such walks and shy talks with Cousin Penelope, and the white beach, and the ocean that made music like cathedral organs. But it would be blissful to have a few days more at The Chimnies, to sit with Mildred and Aunt Eunice in the summer house, and play for Cousin Penelope on the singing piano, and sleep in her own lovely room—no, Jacqueline’s room!—before she went away into the Meadows forever.

All the long ride home—no, it wasn’t home to her, as it was to Cousin Penelope and Aunt Eunice!—Caroline sat silent in her corner of the cushioned limousine. She held Mildred in her arms and was sorry for her. Mildred was going to miss the limousine.

Much of the time they drove along country roads, and in the pastures on either side there were cattle grazing, black and white Holstein cows, and Jersey cows, and cows that were just plain old red mooley. When Caroline looked at them, for all that they were only mildly feeding, she held Mildred tighter, and wished that she dared to whisper her not to be afraid, for maybe the cows at half-aunt Martha’s farm were kind cows.

And maybe the Conway cousins weren’t like the fearsome boys they passed on the road: middle-sized boys with air rifles and fishing rods, intent on killing harmless things; big boys, clattering in home-made automobiles; little boys banging on drums and blowing tin trumpets with a racket that split the ears. Oh, boys were terrible beings, noisy, and full of mischief and strange cruelties! Some boys, just for the fun of it, liked to break and rend a little girl’s dolls. Caroline held Mildred very close and almost fancied she could feel her tremble.

“But there’ll be lots of days yet,” Caroline told herself eagerly. “There’ll be ten days at least—maybe twelve—before I have to go to the Meadows.”

It was the middle of the afternoon when they rolled at last, almost as noiseless as a shadow, down the sunlight-checkered street of Longmeadow, and turned in at the iron gate of The Chimnies. How lovely the garden looked, with its rows of gladioli, like lances in rest, its tall sentinel hollyhocks, its masses of gillyflowers, and of bouncing zinnias! The pears were ripening on the trees, and a purple blush was on the plums. Caroline’s tongue unloosed itself, and she was talking fast as she pattered up the porch steps at Aunt Eunice’s side, but Cousin Penelope was moodily silent as she had been, Caroline now remembered, all through the long journey.

Sallie met them, beaming, at the door, and spoke at once of the tea that Hannah had all ready for them. Just a hasty freshening the travelers permitted themselves—time enough for Caroline to make sure that her green and golden room was as perfect as it was the day she left it—and then they were seated round the tea table by the open window in the long parlor that looked upon the garden.

Aunt Eunice poured the tea carefully into the shallow, fragile old china cups, and Sallie fetched in the mahogany curate’s assistant, with a plate of fresh cinnamon toast, a plate of olive and cheese sandwiches, and a plate of small, rich, chocolate cakes with a frosting thick with nut-meats—cakes such as Hannah alone could make.

“This is like old times,” Aunt Eunice sighed with content. “The old china, and the old silver!”

She looked fondly at the thin, old-fashioned spoon that she held.

“Oh, Mis’ Gildersleeve,” Sallie broke out, contrary to all decorum, but doesn’t a home-coming justify a breaking of rules? “Such a scare as we had over them spoons!”

Cousin Penelope lifted her eyebrows never so slightly. She really was most unsocial to-day! But Aunt Eunice was all friendly interest.

“Why, Sallie,” she said, “don’t tell me you mislaid one of these spoons!”

“Oh, worse than that!” Sallie explained with relish. “I went and mislaid the whole kit an’ bilin’ of ’em. Mis’ Gildersleeve, I’d taken my Bible-oath I put ’em under the dinner napkins in the back of the side-board drawer, but if you’ll believe me, I went to get ’em, and I couldn’t find hide nor hair of ’em. You could have knocked me down with a feather.”

“But you found them, didn’t you?” asked Aunt Eunice, a little anxiously, even though she held one of the precious spoons in her hand that very minute.

“I couldn’t have looked you in the face otherwise,” Sallie assured her. “I ran right over an’ told Mis’ Trowbridge, an’ she told Mis’ Holden, an’ she told the Judge—and oh! Mis’ Gildersleeve, he wants to call on you, soon’s you get back—most particular.”

Sallie bridled as she said the words, and looked mysterious. Why shouldn’t she? Didn’t she know—or think she knew!—the whole story of Jacqueline’s gold beads, which she was not to mention to Aunt Eunice?

“But what about the spoons?” cried Aunt Eunice, not in the least surprised that her old friend, the Judge, should wish to bid her a prompt welcome home.

“Well, if you’ll believe me,” Sallie gave a sheepish giggle. “I found ’em that self-same night, tucked away under the best towels in the linen closet, where I’d hid ’em for better safety. I knew I’d tucked them under something—somewheres!”

“Well, well,” said Aunt Eunice, much relieved. “It’s fortunate, Sallie, that the Judge hadn’t called in the constable.”

“Ah, but there’s more to it than that,” Sallie went on mysteriously. “There’s a lot of things gone from this room and never been found yet. I wouldn’t have called it to your mind, like the Judge told me not to, only you’re bound to miss ’em. The silver things are gone from the desk, an’ the old snuff-box, an’——”

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Cousin Penelope spoke, in the cool, aloof voice that no one knew better how to use. “I put a lot of knick-knacks away for safe keeping in that deep drawer in the hall closet. It was the morning we left, when the car was at the door. And Sallie never discovered they were missing, until the house was re-opened.” Cousin Penelope smiled wintrily. “Really, Sallie, you must have done the parlor very hastily on the morning when we left for the beach.”

What a way Cousin Penelope had of catching you in your own avowals and putting you in the wrong! And if she could look like judgment seats, just because poor Sallie had hurried her work on the day when she, too, was going on a vacation, what would she look like, when she found out, as so soon she must find out, that Caroline was really a little impostor? At the mere thought Caroline put down her strip of crumbly toast untasted.

She was glad that the knocker at the front door went clang that very minute—glad for Sallie, who could cover her flushed embarrassment by hurrying to the door—glad for herself, because her sudden loss of appetite went unnoticed in the excitement that the prospect of a visitor seemed most surprisingly to create.

“Oh,” cried Aunt Eunice, in genuine agitation. “It can’t possibly be—so soon!”

“Probably it’s Judge Holden,” Cousin Penelope spoke calmly. “A most unseasonable time to call.”

“They’re not coming in!” said Aunt Eunice, with marked relief. She actually had turned in her chair, and sat with her anxious face toward the wide doorway that led into the hall. “It was foolish of me to be startled—of course it couldn’t be——”

“Perhaps it’s Jackie!” Caroline’s heart beat fast, and a little guiltily, as she said the words to herself. “Perhaps she’s come to ask me to change—right now.”

She didn’t dare follow the thought to its conclusion. To lose the precious, hoarded days that she was counting, as a miser counts his treasure—oh, how could she bear it!

The outside door closed with unnecessary noise. After all, Sallie was human and must vent her feelings somehow! Cousin Penelope frowned. Was it with mere annoyance—or anxiety? For Sallie had come back into the room, and in her hand she carried a special delivery letter.

“It’s for you, Miss Penelope,” she said, rather grumpily.

“Wait a minute!” bade Cousin Penelope. She tore the bestamped envelope clumsily—and to be clumsy and in haste was not like Cousin Penelope. She gave one glance at the sheet that lay within. “We’ll not dine to-night until seven o’clock, tell Hannah,” she said, without lifting her eyes. “And you can lay two more places at table.”

She tore the letter into four pieces, with a quick, angered movement, as if she would have liked to tear something that could feel.

Sallie went out of the room. Caroline watched her go, in a kind of daze. She didn’t want to look at Aunt Eunice or Cousin Penelope. She didn’t want to ask questions. She almost knew what was coming.

“I thought it better not to tell you, Jacqueline,” said Cousin Penelope, in a voice of hard misery.

“There might have been some change of plans,” Aunt Eunice interrupted, gently and rather wearily. “We didn’t want you to be—disappointed. Of course you have looked forward to their coming.”

Caroline looked from Aunt Eunice’s distressed old face to Cousin Penelope’s averted, angry face. She knew that one was as sorry as the other. And she herself—where had her voice gone to? Was it like this when people died?

“I suppose,” she managed to whisper, after what seemed ages of heart-broken silence, “you mean—that they——”

“Your uncle and aunt,” Cousin Penelope spoke in a crisp voice, “are motoring up from Connecticut. They’ve just written that they’ll be with us—late this afternoon.”