“We sail Tuesday,” continued Uncle John, “and you must have my niece ready in time and deliver her on board the ‘Princess Irene’ at Hoboken at nine o’clock, sharp.”

“But John—­John!” gasped Mrs. Merrick, feebly, “it will take a month, at least, to make her gowns, and—­”

“Stuff and rubbish!” he growled.  “That shows, Martha, how little you know about European trips.  No one makes gowns to go abroad with; you buy ’em in Paris to bring home.”

“Ah, yes; to be sure,” she muttered.  “Perhaps, then, it can be done, if Louise, has no other engagements.”

“Just what Patsy said.  See here, Martha, do you imagine that any girl who is half human could have engagements that would keep her from Europe?”

“But the requirements of society—­”

“You’ll get me riled, pretty soon, Martha; and if you do you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

This speech frightened the woman.  It wouldn’t do to provoke Uncle John, however unreasonable he happened to be.  So she said, meekly: 

“I’ve no doubt Louise will be delighted to go, and so will I.”

“You!”

“Why—­why—­whom do you intend taking?”

“Just the three girls—­Aunt Jane’s three nieces.  Also mine.”

“But you’ll want a chaperone for them.”

“Why so?”

“Propriety requires it; and so does ordinary prudence.  Louise, I know, will be discreet, for it is her nature; but Patsy is such a little flyaway and Beth so deep and demure, that without a chaperone they might cause you a lot of trouble.”

Uncle John grew red and his eyes flashed.

“A chaperone!” he cried, contemptuously; “not any in mine, Martha Merrick.  Either we young folks go alone, without any death’s head to perpetually glower at us, or we don’t go at all!  Three better girls never lived, and I’ll trust ’em anywhere.  Besides that, we aren’t going to any of your confounded social functions; we’re going on a reg’lar picnic, and if I don’t give those girls the time of their lives my name ain’t John Merrick.  A chaperone, indeed!”

Mrs. Merrick held up her hands in horror.

“I’m not sure, John,” she gasped, “that I ought to trust my dear child with an uncle who disregards so openly the proprieties.”

“Well, I’m sure; and the thing’s settled,” he said, more calmly.  “Don’t worry, ma’am.  I’ll look after Patsy and Beth, and Louise will look after all of us—­just as she does after you—­because she’s so discreet.  Talk about your being a chaperone!  Why, you don’t dare say your soul’s your own when Louise is awake.  That chaperone business is all humbuggery—­unless an old uncle like me can be a chaperone.  Anyhow, I’m the only one that’s going to be appointed.  I won’t wait for Louise to wake up.  Just tell her the news and help her to get ready on time.  And now, I’m off.  Good morning, Martha.”

She really had no words of protest ready at hand, and it was long after queer old John Merrick had gone away that she remembered a dozen effective speeches that she might have delivered.