Mollie clapped her hand over her mouth in a gesture of dismay.

“Goodness,” she reproached herself, “I almost forgot about her.  Yes, go ahead Betty and do your best to get her.  I know it would do her good.  But you had better take Amy with you to help persuade Mrs. Sanderson.  Amy and you together are a pair that will be hard to refuse.  There goes Mr. Bretton now!  He’s so grateful for what we girls have done for him here—­as though it were anything at all—­that he’d do far more than help get the car ready.  I’ll get his help, while you and Amy go for Mrs. Sanderson and Grace gets ready.  Now, rush! hurry! fly! off with you!”

Mollie ran out of the house and after the young soldier whose help she sought.  Grace went to her room for some last-minute dressing, and Amy and Betty went upstairs to importune Mrs. Sanderson.

“Well, good morning, my dears,” said the old woman, delighted at sight of their bright faces.  “I declare, if you don’t bring all the sunshine in with you!  It is lovely of you to call on an old woman so early in the morning.”

“Well, you see,” said Betty, eagerly diving right into the middle of her subject.  “We’ve come to kidnap you.  Please, won’t you let us?”

“Kidnap me,” repeated the old lady, patting the soft cheek with a puzzled air.  “Why, it seems to me sort of unusual to ask a body if you can kidnap ’em.”

Betty laughed.

“Well, I guess maybe it is,” she admitted gayly.  “But, you see, we can’t very well do it without asking you.  Mollie said,” she added, taking the little lady’s hand in hers and squeezing it affectionately, “that you told her the only way we could get you to do it was to make you unconscious again.  And,” she finished, with an adorable little coaxing smile, “we couldn’t do that, you know.  We’re altogether too fond of you.”

Mrs. Sanderson laughed and pinched her cheek.

“Very well, honey,” she chuckled.  “Now if you’ll tell me what it’s all about—­”

“We want you to go on a picnic with us,” broke in Amy.

“A picnic!” repeated the old lady, more puzzled than before.  “What sort of picnic?”

“An automobile picnic,” explained Betty, adding quickly as she saw refusal in the bright old eyes.  “Oh, please don’t say ‘no’ yet.  We’ve got the whole day off, and we’re going to take Mollie’s car and go off all by ourselves and eat our lunch and admire the view and—­”

“Taste gasoline for a week after,” finished the old lady with a little grimace.  Then she added quickly, as she saw the hurt look in Betty’s bright face:  “No, I didn’t exactly mean that, dear, and I wouldn’t say anything to make you feel bad for worlds, that I wouldn’t, only—­I jest can’t bring myself to ride in those automobiles.  You see,” there was an almost pathetic appeal for understanding in the bright old eyes, “I guess I’m maybe too old to change my ways, an’ I get tired easy—­”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Amy intervened with rare tact.  “Some day when we’re going for just a little ride around the block we’ll ask you again.  Maybe you’ll feel more like it then, and you can get used to it by degrees.”