Miss Barbara nodded.  “Yes, fully that.  It costs me almost that much to go to Packertown and back, and that, you know, is a few hours this side of Washington.”

There was silence for several minutes, while Judith, already ashamed of her outburst, stitched twice round the skirt she was making for Amy.  Then she said in a cheerful tone that somehow forbade any return to the subject, “Tell me about Packertown, Cousin Barbara.  How did you happen to stray off there after a music class?”

The trip to Washington was mentioned no more that summer, but Miss Barbara understood.

It was the middle of September when the old yellow omnibus rolled up for Miss Barbara and her trunk.  This time there was no returning in mad haste after forgotten property.  With a precision that was almost fussiness, she had packed her trunk days before her departure, and her bonnet was on an hour before train time.

“I can’t help it,” she said, calmly, when Judith remonstrated.  “It’s just my way.  I have a horror of keeping any one waiting.  Habitual disregard of punctuality in the keeping of an engagement or a promise is a sort of dishonesty, in my opinion.  I suppose I do carry it to an extreme in minor matters, but it is better to do that than to cause other people needless anxiety and trouble.”

Miss Barbara was mounted on her hobby now, and she ambled vigorously along until Amy, with a sigh of relief, announced that she heard wheels.  Amy had heard Cousin Barbara’s views more than once, when a missing shoe button, a torn glove, or an unanswered note, claimed immediate attention.

“Remember, Judith,” said Miss Barbara, at parting, “if anything should happen to make it possible for you to go to Washington, be sure and let me know.  I want to arrange for you to stop with me a week on your way.”  But even as Judith spoke her thanks, she shook her head.  She had stopped building air-castles.

Winter came early to Westbrooke.  Mrs. Allen ran over occasionally with a letter from Marguerite, who was an erratic correspondent, sometimes sending interesting daily bulletins of sixteen or twenty pages, sometimes breaking a month’s silence by only a postal card.  They rarely heard from Miss Barbara, but, one snowy day late in January, Amy dashed in from the post-office with a letter to Judith, addressed in her unmistakable precise little hand.  She wrote: 

“The new year began for me with a great pleasure, Judith dear.  An old bill, which I had been unable to collect for so long that I crossed it off my books two years ago, was paid very unexpectedly, and I feel as if I had fallen heir to a dukedom.

“It is enough to enable you to make your visit to Washington and to pay your board in the room next to mine for two weeks.  Maybe there will be enough to get the material for a simple evening gown, and you can make it while you are here, or at home.  It depends on whether you go first to Mrs. Avery or to me.