“I don’t see why that band wants to play ‘Home, Sweet Home,’” she said impatiently as she turned away from the side.  “I don’t think it’s nice to work on people’s feelings that way.”

Uncle Jerry laughed.  “You’re not the first one who’s thought that,” he said consolingly.  “Your aunt and a steamer chair are waiting for you on the other side, so come along and look at your letters and parcels.”

“My aunt,” repeated Ruth.  “How ridiculous it seems to think of that little young thing being my aunt.”

“Not any more absurd, I’m sure, than that a little young thing like me should be your uncle.  I’m only five feet eleven, and a hundred and eighty pounds in weight.”

Ruth laughed merrily, as Uncle Jerry meant she should, and just then they came to their chairs, and to the pretty new aunt smiling a welcome.

“You were so absorbed that we left you for a moment while we secured our chairs.” she said as Ruth dropped down beside her.  “I’m glad you’ve come, for I’m so anxious to know what’s in these mysterious packages.”

“I brought them up from your stateroom in my bag,” added Uncle Jerry.  “I thought you could entertain your youthful uncle and aunt by taking out one at a time.  Sort of a grab-bag arrangement, you know.”

Ruth drew out one of the packages and looked at it curiously.  “That’s Katharine’s writing,” she said, as she studied the address.  Inside was a round flat pincushion made of blue velvet and embroidered with a spray of apple-blossoms.  Around its edge was a fancy arrangement of pins of all colors, and fastened at the back hung a sort of needle-book with leaves of coarse net in which were run invisible hairpins.  On a sheet of paper was written in Alice’s small, neat hand: 

Pins for your collar and pins for your hair, Pins for your belt, and some to spare For any old thing you may want to do.  And not only pins, but our love so true We send in this little package to you.  Katharine—­Alice.

“Isn’t that dear of them?” cried Ruth.  “I suppose they made it, and I shall hang it up in my room just as soon as I get a room.”

Number two proved to be a letter from Charlotte, and as Ruth opened it a dainty handkerchief trimmed with narrow lace insertion and bordered with pink wash ribbon dropped into her lap.

“Dear old Ruth” (the letter ran): 

“Don’t fall overboard when I tell you I trimmed this handkerchief myself, and more than that, don’t look at the stitches.  I thought I couldn’t show my devotion to you more than by poking a needle in and out.

“Glenloch won’t seem the same without you, and I can’t bear to think you’ve really gone.  Do write to me often and tell me all the interesting things you see and do.

“I can hear weeping and wailing out in the yard, and I know the twins are into some mischief, so I must stop.

“Love to Uncle and Aunt Jerry from “Yours disconsolately, “Charlotte.”