ansformation 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 promise