Marjory's discovery; how the Rosemary twins guarded the pearl necklaces

Front matter

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Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Wreck .i

II. The Rescue Party.19

Chapter I

T HAT makes you stare at me %/^/ so, Mary?” Rose Dawson

▼ ▼ bounced about uncomforta¬

bly in her red plush chair and stared back at her Twin across the aisle of the car.

Mary’s round, blue eyes remained fixed upon her Twin. Each instant they seemed to grow rounder and bluer.

“I can’t help it, Rose,” she said, slowly.

“Why?” cried Rose, impatiently.

“I’m trying to make out why people can’t tell us apart,” explained Mary. “I can’t believe I always look like you.”

“But why can’t you believe it, Mary?”

“Because so many times I don’t feel the same inside,” said Mary, soberly.

“Well, it doesn’t show up outside,” said Rose.

“When we got on the train,” went on Mary, “I heard some one say, ‘Just see those Twins—don’t they look ex-act-ly alike?’ And we weren’t feeling a bit alike, Rosie.”

“Why weren’t we?” asked Rose.

“I was so glad Aunt Rose had suddenly decided to send us on home ahead of her to surprise father—”

“I’m just as glad as you are about seeing father,” interrupted Rose, eagerly. “But I didn’t want to go home on the train. I wanted to just sweep through Sugar River village, and arrive home in Aunt Rose’s car, Mary. Besides, I sort of wanted to make those visits in the city with Aunt Rose.”

“I don’t like making visits like that,” said Mary, decidedly. “And there you are, Rose. If we don’t feel alike, why do we go on looking alike?”

“People aren’t looking at our feelings, Mary,” said Rose. “They look at our eyes and noses and mouths and hair. You know, yourself, that our outsides are ex-act-ly alike, as that woman said. Why, if you sat back of us, you couldn’t tell which of us was which, could you?”

“It seems as if I could,” said Mary, thoughtfully. “Where your hair is coming out over the bow a little, it fluffs more than mine does.”

“Nonsense, Mary,” cried Rose, exasper¬ ated. “You do get such queer notions. If a strand of your hair was braided with a 3 strand of mine, you couldn’t tell which was yours, yourself.”

“I could,” said Mary, “if you braided it, Rose.” A slow dimple came into one of her cheeks. Slow twinkles brightened both eyes. “You’d pull it so.”

Rose laughed softly. Two dimples came —one for each cheek. A whole crowd of twinkles danced into her eyes.

“There,” cried Mary, delightedly, lean¬ ing forward. “I never twinkle and sparkle the way you do.”

“You’re twinkling this minute, Mary Contrary,” cried Rose. “Only you can’t see yourself doing it. I wonder,” she added, “if Billy Brown can tell us apart now. Didn’t we have fun that year we went to school as Rosemary Dawson? You a week and I a week, and nobody knowing there were two of us.”

Mary nodded her blonde head with its black bow which was so exactly like her Twin’s blonde head with its black bow. Then she reached for her knitting. Under Aunt Rose’s directions, she was making the first of blue, slip-on, twin sweaters. Rose leaned across the aisle.

“Do see that girl, Mary,” she whispered. “The one just getting up—in the tan coat. Isn’t she pretty?”

Mary peered around the fat woman who sat ahead of her to get a better view of the pretty girl. Her chair was some distance down the aisle on Rose’s side. She was speaking to a maid who sat across from her. The maid picked up a pretty traveling bag and an umbrella. Then they both went slowly down the aisle toward the dining car which was just ahead.

“Isn’t she pretty?” said Rose again.

“Her back is,” laughed Mary. “Oh dear, Rose, there goes my ball.”

Away went the ball of dull-blue wool, across the aisle, under some one’s chair, on under some one else’s, bobbing out into the aisle again, and then disappearing entirely. Rose and Mary both bobbed along after it, the fat woman and others near by good-naturedly trying to help in the chase. It was Rose who found it, not far from the pretty girl’s empty chair. It lay, quietly enough now, against the side of the coach. Beside it lay a quaint bead bag. Rose handed the ball to Mary and picked up the bag.

It was a most delightful bag made en¬ tirely of the tiniest beads in soft warm colors. A big blue lily nodded at a big red rose, and across the bottom, against a back¬ ground of dull red, a pretty church of blue 6 lifted a black steeple between two green trees.

Mary bent over Rose’s shoulder to ad¬ mire the fascinating bag.

“It’s slipped from some one’s lap,” said Rose. She scanned the people about her, wondering who had lost the pretty thing.

“What a lovely goldy top,” said Mary. “And there are some initials on it, aren’t there? It’s so dark down here, I can’t make them out. And this car sways so. Why—Rose, what—is the matter?”

For Rose, trying to stand erect, was clutching at the side of a chair. And all up and down the long coach, people were throwing down books, magazines, papers, lunch boxes, whatever they had in their hands, to gaze in startled fashion at each other, and out of the nearest window. The next instant, there came a sudden awful 7 crashing of brakes, a roar of steam escap¬ ing somewhere, and a dizzying rocking from side to side.

A long time afterward, Rose became con¬ scious of several things, one after another. There was a pain in her head, and another in her back. For a long time it seemed that the two pains were twins and couldn’t be told apart. Then there was a trouble¬ some streak of something bright and hot that kept trying to get in her eyes, if she opened them even the least bit. She could hear something that sounded sweet and cool and comforting like the trickle of water. But with it was another sound that wasn’t comforting—like some one crying. Was she crying? She opened her eyes. The troublesome bright hot something seemed to be sunshine. Where was she? And who was she anyway?

“Am I Mary—or Rose?” she said, or thought she said, after a long, dazed min¬ ute.

Something came quickly between her and the sunshine. At first from clouds of un¬ consciousness and pain, she thought she was looking into her own face, wet with tears, and whiter than she had ever seen it, except for a jagged red streak across its forehead. She shut her eyes. Later, something wet and cool touched her hot forehead. She opened her eyes again.

“Rose,” said a voice. It sounded exactly like her own, only it was weak and trem¬ bling. “Are you dead?”

“I don’t know,” said Rose. Or she thought she said it.

“Can’t you say just a word to me, Rosie?” said the voice again. There was a sob and tears splashed on her face.

“Are you Rose?” Rose thought she said. But all she really said was, “Rose?”

“You’re Rose,” said the anxious, little voice. “I’m Mary.”

“You look like Rose,” said Rose. This time she really said what she thought she did.

“Why, of course,” said the voice. “Mary always looks like Rose, you know. Do you feel better, Rosie? Do please, if you can. It’s going to be dark soon—and we’re all alone here.”

“Am I Rose—really?” asked Rose. “I —don’t feel—like Rose.”

“You’re Rose,” said Mary gently. “And I’m Mary. Don’t you remember?”

“The Rosemary Twins?” said Rose, try¬ ing to smile.

“Could you sit up, Rosie,” asked Mary, anxiously, “if I helped?”

With Mary’s help, Rose sat up leaning against a tree.

“Where are we?” she asked, staring about.

“Somewhere under a hill,” said Mary.

This meant nothing to Rose, except

There was an old woman lived under a hill,

And if she’s not dead, she lives there still.

She started to say this, but Mary looked so frightened, she stopped.

“How did we get—under a hill?” she said, after shutting her eyes tight and try¬ ing to get her tangled-up thoughts into shape. “Is this where we started for?”

“We started for home,” said Mary. “Aunt Rose put us on the train—don’t you remember, Rosie? Then, there was an awful wreck.” Mary shuddered.

Suddenly it all came back to Rose. She sat up straight and clutched Mary.

“The train rocked,” she cried, “and I clutched for you. And you weren't there —and something hit my head—and I ran. Then I fell down and got up and ran and ran and fell down again, Mary.”

Mary nodded.

“I crawled out of a window,” she said, “all by myself. It took a long time. Then I went up and down looking for you. But you weren't anywhere. And every one was so busy looking for some one, no one paid any attention to me. And some people were hurt, Rose. It was dreadful. By and by, I found a little path that went away by itself. I followed it down into this gulf. And right here, in these pine needles and moss, I found you.”

Every bit of Mary’s pretty color was 12 gone. Her eyes were frightened and black —not blue at all—under the ugly cut in her forehead. There was a great smudge of soot on her nose which added to her strange appearance.

“Never mind,” said Rose. “We’re both here now—and we aren’t hurt.”

“Can you get up, Rose?” asked Mary, anxiously.

Taking hold of the friendly little tree, Rose slowly pulled herself up. She was giddy at first and had to lean against its sturdy trunk. But things soon straightened out. She smiled at her Twin.

“See,” she said.

“Could you climb up the side of the gulley?” asked Mary.

“Maybe I could follow the path back,” said Rose, doubtfully.

“I wouldn’t go back by that path,” said 13

Mary, with a little shiver, “for anything, Rosie. It goes straight back to the wreck. And I never want to see a railroad again. But maybe we could find a house up on the top of that hill somewhere.”

“What time is it?” said Rose. She sat down again beside Mary and leaned her head against the tree.

“My wrist watch smashed all to bits,” said Mary. “See where it cut my wrist?”

“Mine’s going,” said Rose.

The cheery voice of Rose’s little watch was a good thing to hear; but it was ticking the minutes briskly away. It was after eight o’clock. The round red sun had gone down. All about them were the long, purple shadows of night. A sleepy robin was chirping somewhere above them.

“Why not stay here till morning, Mary?” said Rose. “I’m so tired. And my head aches dreadfully yet. Do let’s.”

Mary looked all about her. It was a pretty little spot into which the runaway path had brought her. It had come through a little patch of woods bringing a stream with it to join a bigger stream here in the gulf. The little hollow in which she had found her Twin was as comfy and snug as if it had been made just to hold two frightened, train-wrecked little girls. At one side of it stood the staunch, little pine tree, whose needles helped to make the ground soft. At the other side was a wild apple tree in full bloom. The apple tree put out a friendly branch; the pine put out a friendly branch. Just over the little girls’ heads, the two branches met, like clasping hands. Pink apple blooms min- 15 gled prettily with the glossy pine needles.

“All right,” she said, slowly. “It won’t be long till morning, if we go right to sleep. But I’m not sleepy a bit.”

“You can knit when the moon gets up higher, Mary,” said Rose, with a faint lit¬ tle giggle. “You’ve hung on to your knit¬ ting bag, I see.”

Mary stared at the big blue-flowered thing on her arm. “It’s been there all this time,” she said, “and I never even saw it till now.”

“I wish it was a lunch box,” said Rose. “My stomach feels so queer, Mary—maybe it’s empty.”

“There’s a lunch in it,” cried Mary, ex¬ citedly diving down into the bag. “Four sandwiches and two oranges. Don’t you remember at the last minute, Aunt Rose put them in? What will Aunt Rose think 16 has become of us, Rose?” she added, sol¬ emnly.

“I don’t know,” said Rose. “But we can’t do anything about it to-night, Mary.”

Side by side, in the pine needles, the wrecked Twins ate their late supper. After it, they felt better.

Mary put two sandwiches away carefully for breakfast. Then she curled down in the warm, little hollow beside her Twin. Overhead, the trees joined protecting hands. And slowly, the gulf was growing light from a great, yellow moon.

“There’s something in these needles some¬ where,” said Rose, fidgeting about, “that hurts me. I thought it was part of the pain in my back, but it isn’t.”

Mary burrowed about under Rose. She found something that was not a stone, but that in some way felt strangely out of place.

She brought it out and held it up before her own and Rose’s surprised eyes. It was a small bead bag. Its colors caught the light of the coming moon. Its golden chain gleamed softly.

“It belonged to some one in the train,” said Mary. “We’d just found it when the crash came.”

“I couldn’t have clutched it all the time I was running and falling down, could I, Mary?” asked Rose. She gazed solemnly at the little bag. Then she gazed solemnly at Mary.

“Why yes,” said Mary, “you could, Rose, because you did. But we won’t ever know now whose it is, will we?”

Chapter II

T HE sun gets up early in May. It really was not long before dawn was unrolling her rosy ribbons down the sides of the gulf in place of the moon’s silvery ones. But the Twins, in their bed of pine needles, slept on and on.

When at last they did awake, it was at the same moment, as usual. Mary blinked at Rose. Rose blinked at Mary. Mary pulled herself up on one arm to get a better view. Rose did the same. Then both said “Ouch!” for Rose’s head hurt in back and Mary’s hurt in front. And muscles they had never known they had cried out 19 sharply against being moved at all.

Mary pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared at her Twin. Rose did not look like Rose. She had lost her black hair bow. Her hair was loose at the neck and very untidy, with bits of pine needles and moss clinging to it. Her middy-blouse was torn straight down the front. Her face smudged with soot looked white and strange.

Meanwhile, Rose stared at Mary. Mary did not look like Mary. Her black hair bow still clung rakishly to a strand or two of hair. But a lock had broken loose and hung over her eyes. And it was full of broken pine needles. A sleeve of her middy was torn almost out. The cut across her forehead showed long and red. And where her face was not black with soot, it was very white indeed.

“Can you get up, Rose?” Mary asked. At the same minute Rose said, anxiously, “Can you get up, Mary?”

Both Twins could get up, stand up, and walk. But walking hurt Rose so much, that she sat down quickly again.

“It hurts my back,” she said.

Mary gazed anxiously at Rose’s dirty face.

“I’m going to wet this clean handker¬ chief,” she said, “and wash your face. Then maybe you’ll feel better.”

Mary made several trips to the stream before Rose’s face was clean. Then she washed her own. Each Twin breakfasted on a sandwich. Then Rose lay down again.

“It’s my back or my head, I don’t know which,” she said fretfully, shutting her eyes. “Let’s just lie here till some one 21 comes along and finds us,” she added, open¬ ing them again after a minute.

“Nobody’ll come,” said Mary. “I’m go¬ ing to try to get up the side of the gulf, Rose. There must be a house up there somewhere.”

“Oh, I can’t, Mary,” said Rose.

“You stay right here, Rosie.”

“Oh dear,” said Rose. “How you’ll ever manage without me, Mary Dawson, I don’t know.”

Mary wondered, herself. Rose was al¬ ways the one who planned things and went ahead with them.

“I’ll be back just as soon as I possibly can,” she said.

She poked about, here and there, for a few minutes, in the growth of pines on the side of the gulf. She could not find any¬ thing like a path. At last, she began pulling herself up from one tree to another. It was almost straight up and down. By and by, the trees were farther apart, and the rocks became sand. Then, all at once, she found herself in the midst of low briery bushes that caught at and tore her skirt. Sometimes, a ledge of rock jutted out of the sand, and gave her a most unfriendly knock. It was slow, hard work. It seemed to Mary that she slipped back faster than she went ahead. If it had not been for Rose back there in the gulf, Mary must have given up. But thinking of her Twin, she pulled herself painfully along from ledge to ledge, scraping her arms and shins, gain¬ ing a little, losing a little, gaining more, losing less. At last, pausing for breath on a broader ledge, she found she was halfway up. She kept on, digging in her heels, clutching at blueberry bushes, step by step, 23 tug by tug, until she was surely three quar¬ ters of the way up. Then, with a final ef¬ fort which made her poor head throb dreadfully, she brought herself to a ledge not far from the edge of the gulf. A fringe of blueberries grew along the edge. Mary could not quite reach them.

“Maybe if I get my breath,” she thought, sitting down to rest for a minute, “and then give a little hop, I can get hold of one of them.” She gazed about for a friendly bush that might reach over a bit farther than the others. Then, quite suddenly, out of the tangle of green, a round, freckled, little face peered down at her, and a shrill excited little voice exclaimed:

“I heard you coming. Only I didn’t s’pose ’twas a little girl. Who are you? And what made you come?”

“Oh, help me up, please,” begged Mary. “Then I’ll tell you all about it.”

The little face disappeared as suddenly as it had come. But the voice shrilled to some one Mary couldn’t see.

“Pet—come here—quick!”

Next minute, the little girl-face again peered over the ledge. A tuft of black hair showed above the face. And above the tuft, another face showed—a little-boy face, round, rosy, solemn, with big, won¬ derful, black-lashed blue eyes.

Two voices called now.

“Bobby—Bert,” they cried, “do come here quick.”

Next minute, Mary waiting hopefully on her ledge, saw two more boy-faces, older than the first, looking anxiously down at her. And in spite of the fact that Mary had never liked boys, these faces looked 25 good. Four pairs of arms reached down to help her up. And digging in her toes, and clasping fast to those stout, friendly, little hands, Mary went over the edge of the ledge and sat down, breathless, in the very middle of a blueberry bush. Four little folks stared at her. The little girl brushed at her skirt.

“Did you fall over?’’ asked one of the older boys.

“She climbed up,” said the little girl.

“She couldn’t—not there,” said the boy.

“I did,” said Mary. “Where am I, any¬ way?”

“That’s the Penny Bank,” said the boy, who did the talking. He pointed out a big, rambling, old house perched on the hillside. “I’m Bob Penny.”

“That’s where we live,” said the second boy. “Pm Bert Penny.”

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ALL FOUR LITTLE PENNIES CAME A STEP NEARER TO GET A BETTER LOOK AT MARY.”

“I’m Pet,” said the little boy, “and she’s Trixy.”

“We’re the four little Pennies,” said Trixy. “Everybody knows us. Who are you? Your face is dirty.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “I suppose it is. I’m Mary Dawson,” she went on. “My Twin sister and I were on the train—”

“Gee,” cried Bob. All four little Pen¬ nies came a step nearer to get a better look at Mary in her blueberry bush. “Were you in that wreck, yesterday?”

Mary grew very white.

“It was awful,” she said. “I can’t bear to think about it. Rose and I slept down in that gulf last night.” Mary sprang up. “Oh, I mustn’t stop to talk,” she cried. “Isn’t there some one who can go back down with me and help her up here?”

“There’s nobody home but us,” said Bob Penny. “Aunt Melissa’s gone to Over¬ brook for a little walk. That’s the big house up there—you can see it through the trees.”

Mary stared at the roof of a big house farther up the hill.

“Is there some one there who would go?” she asked.

“It isn’t open,” said Bob. “There isn’t any one there. Bert and I can run to the village and get some one,” he added. “ ’Twon’t take so very long.”

“Oh, it will seem ages to poor Rose,” cried Mary.

“Couldn’t Bert and I carry her?” said Bob, thoughtfully. “Is she very big? Is she much hurt?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” cried Mary. “Anyway, she can’t walk much.

She’s just exactly as big as I am,” she added. “Could you carry me?”

“Try and see,” said Bob promptly. He and Bert quickly made a chair of their four hands. They offered it to Mary. She slipped into it, put her arms around the boys’ necks, and was carried easily enough.

“But up that bank?”' cried Mary.

“Huh,” said Bob. “I guess not. There’s a path.”

As soon as the path into the gulf was pointed out to Mary, she fairly ran down it. Bob kept close beside her on one side, Bert on the other; Trixy and Pet panted along behind.

It was not long before they came in sight of the little pine tree and the little apple tree guarding the little hollow. Rose was asleep. Her face was half-hidden by her mass of blonde hair. As if she felt their 29 eyes upon her, she woke quickly and pulled herself up, staring at them with wide, startled, blue eyes.

“Why, she’s most exactly like you,” cried Trixy.

“Rose,” said Mary, eagerly, “here are the four little Pennies from the Penny Bank up on the hill. They’re going to carry you up the path—it’s real easy.”

A plucky, little dimple came out in Rose’s cheek as she looked at her rescue party.

“I’m pretty heavy to carry,” she said. “Maybe I can walk if it isn’t far.”

“Bert and I can carry you,” said Bob, importantly.

So, with Mary and Pet and Trixy all trying to help, Rose got into the chair Bob and Bert made and held low for her. It hurt her some, when she put her arms 30 around their necks, and she winced a little when they set out.

“Oh please go carefully,” begged Mary. She winced every time her Twin did, and sometimes when she did not.

Bob and Bert went slowly and carefully. Pet followed with Mary’s flowered bag. Mary and Trixy walked one on each side of Rose to help steady her. Twice, they stopped to rest. But the little path was cool and quiet. It had a delightful way of running from one pretty nook to another, beckoning all the way. The air was fresh and sweet with all the dew-wet things of the woods. It really was not long before they came in sight of the hospitable Penny Bank. At sight of its broad porch and wide-open windows, Rose gave a little sigh of relief.

“It’s almost like home, Mary,” she cried.

She tried to bounce a little on her chair. Instead she fainted dead away.

Staggering, now, with her weight, the boys got her up the steps and on to the porch where a comfortable old lounge, heaped high with pillows, seemed to wait for her.

Mary, worn out with her long strain and this new anxiety, was almost as white as her Twin. Trixy brought water and Mary spilled it on Rose’s face and down her neck. Bob rushed to the telephone and called a doctor from the little village below the hill. Bert started to Overbrook to bring Aunt Melissa. Pet followed, still carrying Mary’s blue bag.

In a minute or two, Rose opened her eyes.

“That’s the first thing I ever did that you didn’t do, Mary,” she said, a dimple show- 32 ing for a brief moment. “Do lie down, you look lots worse than I feel.”

“Here’s Aunt Meliss’ now,” cried Trixy. She ran down the steps to hurry Bert and Aunt Melissa. The next minute, they all three came back across the porch.

“Bless your dear, frightened-to-death, lit¬ tle hearts,” cried Aunt Melissa. She looked at the dirty, scratched faces and hands, the torn, bedraggled skirts and waists, the dusty stockings and shoes. Then she sat down between them and gathered both Twins right up into her kind, motherly arms. “Aunt Melissa’s come, and she’ll take care of you. Curl right up there— both of you—while I get you some nice, hot milk. By and by, you shall tell me all about everything.”

Chapter III An Aunt, A Nurse, And A Dog

A UNT MELISSA had scarcely finished her sentence, when up the steep hill from the village and into the yard of the Penny Bank, puffed a doctor’s car. The doctor, stout and fussy like his car, puffed across the porch toward them.

“What’s all this?” he demanded. He set down his case, whisked out a thermom¬ eter, and thrust it into Mary’s unwilling mouth. Then he began to look Rose over. He shook his head, now and then, as if he was discovering dreadful things. Mary watched anxiously. The thermometer wouldn’t let her talk.

After what seemed a very long time to Mary, he whisked the thermometer out of her mouth, shook his head over it, cleansed it, and put it under Rose’s tongue. Then he began on Mary.

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” she said. “It was Rose, not me, who was hurt, doctor.”

“Yes, yes,” said the little doctor. He went right on glaring at her cut forehead, feeling her pulse, gazing at her tongue, and poking her here and there. By and by, he set her down on the old lounge beside her Twin.

“It’s a wonder they weren’t both killed and done with it,” he said to Aunt Melissa, who helped him dress Mary’s cut. “But there isn’t a bone broken. The thing they must do, Mrs. Penny, is to sleep—all to-day and all to-night. Then to-morrow they 35 must begin and do it all over again. And eat—they must have plenty of good, nour¬ ishing food.”

“But if they sleep all the time, when can they eat?” asked Pet, suddenly.

“Hey?” said the doctor, glaring at Pet over his big spectacles. “Eat and sleep, I say,” he said all over again to the Twins. “You don’t need medicine—not a bit of it.”

Mary and Rose did not know much about doctors. They could not remember that they had ever had one before in all their lives. They were not even looking at him. They sat staring straight into each other’s eyes—a habit of theirs. Now, sud¬ denly, Mary spoke the thought that was in both heads.

“We can’t go to sleep,” she said, anx¬ iously turning toward the little doctor, “un¬ til—”

“Until what, young lady?” asked the doc¬ tor, testily.

Dr. Bradley did not know much about children. He was more interested in cases.

“What will Aunt Rose think has become of us?” said Mary slowly. “And father— if he knows.”

“Where is this Aunt Rose?” asked the doctor. “Was she wrecked, too?”

“Oh no,” said Mary. “We left her in the car.”

“We were going on ahead of her to sur¬ prise father,” said Rose.

“Begin at the very beginning,” said Aunt Melissa, gently. “Let them get everything off their minds,” she added to the doctor, who was fuming about the porch, “then they can rest better.”

“Well,” said Mary, “to begin with, we’re Rose and Mary Dawson. I’m Mary.

Most of our friends call us ‘The Rosemary Twins.’ ”

“Never mind frills and roses, now,” said the little doctor. “Tell just what’s neces¬ sary.”

“Go on, dear,” encouraged Aunt Melissa.

“We live at Sugar River in a farmhouse,” said Rose. “Oh dear, that isn’t necessary, either. Yob go on, Mary!”

“We have two aunts,” said Mary. “Aunt Mary Craig—who lives in New York. Probably Aunt Rose has sent her word, Rose.”

“And Aunt Rose Norris,” hurried Rose, because the doctor was tapping the floor impatiently with his foot. “She’s father’s sister. She lives in California.”

“California?” cried the doctor.

“Oh, but she isn’t there now,” explained Mary. “We’ve been out there living with 38 her a year. We’ve come all the way back in her car.”

“And yesterday, she put us on the train to go on home,” said Rose, “while she went on in the car to make some visits—”