His words came true, and they finally did emerge from the seething mass and found a carriage, the door of which happened to be standing mysteriously open.  Within, upon the small seat, some omniscient hands had already deposited Aunt Mary’s bags.  It did not take long to stow Aunt Mary, face to her luggage, and she was barely established there before her trunk came, too; and, although the coachman looked so gorgeous, he was nevertheless obliging enough to allow it to couch humbly at his feet.

Then they rolled away.

Jack sat sideways and looked at his aunt, holding her hand.  His eyes were unfeignedly happy, and his companion matched his eyes.  Neither seemed to recollect that one was bitterly angry, and that the other was on the verge of melancholia.  Instead, Jack declared fervently: 

“Aunt Mary, I’ve made up my mind to give you the time of your life!”

And Aunt Mary drew a sigh of relief in his words and anticipation of their fulfillment.

“I’ll be happy takin’ care of you,” she said, benevolently.  “My!—­but your letter scared me.  An’ yet you look well.”

He laughed.

“It’s the knowing you were coming that’s done that, Aunt Mary.  You ought to have seen me when I got your telegram.  I almost turned a somersault.”

Aunt Mary smiled rapturously and patted his hand.

And just then they drew up in front of the house.  She looked out, and her face fell a trifle.

“It’s awful high and narrow,” she said.

“They all are,” Jack replied, opening the carriage door and jumping out to receive her.

The door at the top of the steps opened, and a man came down for the bags.  In the hall above, a pretty maid waited with a welcoming smile.

Jack piloted his aunt, first up the entrance steps, and then up the staircase within, and led her to the lovely room which had been vacated for her.  The maid followed with tea and biscuits, and the man brought the luggage and ranged it unobtrusively in a corner.  There was a lavish richness about everything which made Aunt Mary and her trunk appear as gray and insignificant as a pair of mice, by contrast; but she didn’t feel it, and so she didn’t mind it.

Jack kissed her tenderly.

“Welcome to town, Aunt Mary,” he said heartily, “and may you never live to look upon this day as other than the luckiest of your life!” Then, turning to the servant, he said: 

“Janice, you see that you do all that money can buy for my aunt.”

The maid courtesied.  She had arranged the tray upon a little table and the spout of the tea pot and the round hole in the middle of the toast-cover were each pouring forth a pleasant suggestion.

Aunt Mary began at once to haul forth her keys.

“Why, Aunt Mary,” Jack cried, wondering if her nose was deaf, too, or whether she didn’t feel hungry, “don’t you see your tea?  Or don’t you want any?”