Well, I stepped down from the cars and looked over to where the carriages were to find John and Aunt Jane.  But they weren’t there.  There wasn’t even the carriage there; and I can remember now just how my heart sort of felt sick inside of me when I thought that even Aunt Jane had forgotten, and that there wasn’t anybody to meet me.

There was a beautiful big green automobile there, and I thought how I wished that had come to meet me; and I was just wondering what I should do, when all of a sudden somebody spoke my name.  And who do you think it was?  You’d never guess it in a month.  It was Father.  Yes, FATHER!

Why, I could have hugged him, I was so glad.  But of course I didn’t, right before all those people.  But he was so tall and handsome and splendid, and I felt so proud to be walking along the platform with him and letting folks see that he’d come to meet me!  But I couldn’t say anything—­not anything, the way I wanted to; and all I could do was to stammer out: 

“Why, where’s Aunt Jane?”

And that’s just the thing I didn’t want to say; and I knew it the minute I’d said it.  Why, it sounded as if I missed Aunt Jane, and wanted her instead of him, when all the time I was so pleased and excited to see him that I could hardly speak.

I don’t know whether Father liked it, or minded it.  I couldn’t tell by his face.  He just kind of smiled, and looked queer, and said that Aunt Jane—­er—­couldn’t come.  Then I felt sorry; for I saw, of course, that that was why he had come; not because he wanted to, but because Aunt Jane couldn’t, so he had to.  And I could have cried, all the while he was fixing it up about my trunk.

He turned then and led the way straight over to where the carriages were, and the next minute there was John touching his cap to me; only it was a brand-new John looking too sweet for anything in a chauffeur’s cap and uniform.  And, what do you think?  He was helping me into that beautiful big green car before I knew it.

“Why, Father, Father!” I cried.  “You don’t mean”—­I just couldn’t finish; but he finished for me.

“It is ours—­yes.  Do you like it?”

“Like it!” I guess he didn’t need to have me say any more.  But I did say more.  I just raved and raved over that car until Father’s eyes crinkled all up in little smile wrinkles, and he said: 

“I’m glad.  I hoped you’d like it.”

“I guess I do like it!” I cried.  Then I went on to tell him how I thought it was the prettiest one I ever saw, and ’way ahead of even Mr. Easterbrook’s.

“And, pray, who is Mr. Easterbrook?” asked Father then.  “The violinist, perhaps—­eh?”