Janice carried the tray away and the next minute they all burst in bearing their parting gifts in their arms.

The gifts were an indiscriminate collection of flowers, candy, magazines, books, etc.

Aunt Mary opened her closet door and showed the four dressing-cases.  Everyone but Jack was mightily surprised and everyone was mightily pleased.  The room looked like Christmas, and the faces, too.

“I shall die with my head on the hair brush,” Clover declared, and Mitchell went down on his knees and kissed Aunt Mary’s hand.

“You must all come an’ see me if you ever go anywhere near,” said the old lady.  “Now promise.”

“We promise,” they yelled in unison, and then they asked in beautiful rhythm “What’s the matter with Aunt Mary?” and yelled the answer “She’s all right!” with a fervor that nearly blew out the window.

“I declare,” Aunt Mary exclaimed, as the echoes settled back among the furniture, “when I think of Lucinda seems as if—­” she paused; further speech was for the nonce impossible.

“The carriages are ready,” Janice announced at the door, and from then until they reached the train all was confusion and bustle.

Only the train whistle could drown the farewells which they poured into her ear-trumpet, and when they could hover in her drawing-room no longer they stood outside the window as long as the window was there to stand outside of.  And then they watched it until it was out of sight, and after that turned solemnly away.

“By grab!” said Burnett, “I think she ought to leave us all fortunes.  I never was so completely done up in my life.”

“My throat’s blistered,” said Clover feebly; “I’m going to stand on my head and gargle with salve until my throat’s healed.”

“I shall never shine on the team again,” said Mitchell.  “I shall hire out for bleacher work.  He who has successfully conversed with Aunt Mary need not fear to attack a Wagner Opera single-handed.”

Jack did not say anything.  His heart was athirst for Mrs. Rosscott.

She was back in her own library the next night, and he rushed thither as soon as his first day’s labor was over.  She was prettier and her eyes were sweeter and brighter than ever as she rose to meet him and held out—­first one hand, and then both.  He took the one hand and then the two and the longing that possessed him was so overwhelming that only his acute consideration for all she was to him kept him from taking more yet.

“And the week’s over,” she said, when she had dragged her fingers out of his and gone and nestled down upon the divan, among the pillows that rivaled each other in their attempts to get closer to her, “the week’s all over and our aunt is gone.”

“Yes,” he said, rolling his favorite chair up near to her seat, “all is over and well over.”

She smiled and he smiled too.

“She must have enjoyed it,” she said thoughtfully.