“I’m ready, Aunt Alida, and Frieda came down when I did. How lovely it is, Aunt Alida, to look the way you do in those furs and yet be as good as you are beautiful, taking things to the hospital!” cried Beth sincerely. Anna Mary looked up with a smile and Mrs. Cortlandt actually blushed. “You funny little Beth,” she cried. “Do you think it proves goodness to like to give pleasure to a sick child? A Hottentot would want to.” “You’re not very Hottentotish,” remarked Beth, following her aunt out of the room, while Anna Mary brought up the rear with the suit-case. In the hall below they found Mrs. Hodgman waiting with a maid in charge of a basket that in itself was as refreshing as an orchard; green and white it was, made of shining braided straw, with a big tonic red bow triumphing on its handle. “The car is at the door, Mrs. Cortlandt,” said Mrs. Hodgman. “Kitty, you may set the basket in the car and then call Frieda. I have grapes and oranges, Mrs. Cortlandt, and several glasses of jellies and preserves, lemons, in case the child is feverish, figs--I can’t recall precisely all that was put into the basket. Here are the flowers you ordered for Miss Beth to take.” “I am sure the basket holds all that it possibly can of the wisest selection, Mrs. Hodgman,” said Aunt Alida, with the smile that made every one who served her feel rewarded. “Here is Frieda. Good-morning, Frieda. Don’t look so anxious, child; I am sure we are to hear the best of tidings. Come, my Bethie.” They repaired to the car, the chauffeur held the door open and arranged the robes, while Anna Mary gave a touch to Mrs. Cortlandt’s furs that was not needed and which showed that austere person concealed affection for her mistress under her severity. With less noise and fuss than a car that held itself less proudly would have made, they got under way and glided smoothly over the asphalt, up the avenue. “Take the park to a Hundred and Tenth Street, Léon,” Mrs. Cortlandt ordered the chauffeur, catching the gleam in Beth’s eyes as she looked over the bordering wall of the park at the trees and the sunny malls with the prettiest children in the world romping down them. Léon Charette obediently turned in at the entrance gate and they slowly made their way northward, one of a procession of cars and carriages going in the same direction, though not in such numbers as would be out later in that glorious day. Beth could hardly sit still; the splendors of human beings, big and little, of cars, above all the perfect horses and the beauty of the park had not grown familiar to her. Central Park was like an enchanted forest of her wonder tales; it gathered up romance, poetry, the Field of the Cloth of Gold and fairy revels, and made them visible to her; made her even a part of them. “I never, never can make Janie understand how it looks,” Beth sighed, out of a long silence. “You must have your Janie here for a visit another winter,” laughed Aunt Alida.