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"Nancibel, you won't mind showing Cousin Jane and Cousin Helen where they can take their things off, will you dear?" said Aunt M. At the same moment Mary Ann came through the sliding doors that led to the dining room and announced solemnly: "Dinner's on the table, mum."

"This is nice," said Aunt M. when they were all seated round the table where amid a glitter of silverware the creases stood up stiffly in the heavily starched linen cloth: "Quite like old times." And as Nan let the brown croutons slide off the spoon into the tomato bisque a heartbreaking lassitude came over her—I'm twentyeight and every seventh day of my life I must have done this. Twentyeight by fiftytwo, what does that make? But some one was speaking to her. "And how did you enjoy September at Squirrel Island?" Cousin Jane Turnstable was asking in her musical voice.

After dinner with the thickness of overrich icecream still in their mouths they went into the parlor for coffee.

"I suppose I shall never go abroad again," Aunt M. was saying. "My travelling days are over. But if I did it would be to take for one last time that drive from Sorrento to Amalfi when the lemontrees are in bloom.... I'm afraid it is a little blasphemous to say it, but I can't imagine Heaven more beautiful. You surely have taken that drive, Nancibel."