afterward. Hastily she threw back the bed-clothes and stepped out of bed. She turned on the electricity and hurried across the bare floor to the closet. She pulled down her muff from the shelf. Here was the letter, just where she had tucked it away, and sealed up, too, in its envelope. She ripped it open. She read her words through. What could it mean, anyhow? Lucretia put her hands to her cheeks. They were burning hot. She must have a fever.
"Look here, Lucretia Hamilton," she said out loud grimly, "you'd better hurry and get back into bed. I believe you're coming down with a terrible sickness."
But she wasn't. Lucretia had never been terribly sick. The time had never come when it was convenient. Next morning, as she lay staring at the ceiling trying to muster up courage to jump out of bed and ask one of the children to tell Mother that Aunt Cretia was going to sleep through breakfast this morning, Beatrice tapped on the door and came in. She was half dressed, and her hair was tucked out of sight inside a flower-trimmed breakfast cap.
"Heaven's, Lu, it's half past eight!" she exclaimed. "Henry's just gone down to breakfast. What do you suppose? We've decided to run down to New York this afternoon for a fortnight.
