“The ‘country’ was only seven miles away; first the train, then the horse cars, and, then, a two-mile drive. “The wagons from the country came for the things Monday morning; there were two big loads (everything else had been sold), and in the country home we expected to find new and plain furniture that had already been sent from the stores. “Monday the children and I had a hilarious time at dinner; moving times had begun, and I _did_ eat a piece of pie in my fingers. I was too full of the fun of things to notice that Aunt Bessie ate no dinner, and Elsie and I were teasing Rob in noisy play after dinner, and did not see that she was very white and scarcely spoke at all. “‘Marion,’ she said at last, ‘I cannot conquer it; I’ve tried for half the day and all night; I cannot hold up my head another minute; one of my terrible headaches has come upon me. Jane will have to stay here with me and baby and Rob—do you think _you_ could—but no, you couldn’t—it’s too lonely for you—and I may not get there to-night.’ “‘Go to Sunny Plains alone—and have an adventure! Oh, Aunt Bessie! It’s too good to be true.’ “Unmindful of her headache I clapped my hands, and danced Rob up and down. It was all my own moving time. “‘But, Marion, what would your mother think?’ she protested, weakly; ‘of course there are near neighbors—and you might take something to eat—and, if I do not get there, you must go across the way and stay all night. The old man who had the two white horses—you remember him, said he was our nearest neighbor, and he hoped we would be neighborly. He said he had a daughter about your age—you might ask her—if I _do_ let you go—to stay with you all night.’ “‘But, after all,’ looking at our trim, colored maid of all work, ‘perhaps Jane may better go and you stay with me. And—’ “‘Oh, no, ma’am, oh, no, indeed, ma’am,’ tremulously interrupted Jane (she was only two years older than I). ‘I couldn’t think of it; I should die of fright. I never lived in a wilderness, and I expect to give warning the first week, for I never can bear the country.’ “‘Now, Aunt Bessie, you see I have to go,’ I persuaded. ‘Jane can’t help being afraid—and I didn’t know how to be afraid—really, I don’t know what to be afraid of. Let Elsie go with me, and we’ll do everything ourselves—have the house all in order for you to-morrow morning, and have the most glorious time we ever had in our lives. My Cousin Jennie isn’t fifteen, and she stayed a week over alone in the country while Uncle and Auntie were away. Oh, _do_ let us go, Aunt Bessie.’ “‘Somebody must, I suppose,’ half consented Aunt Bessie, who was growing whiter every moment; ‘Elsie, are you brave enough to go with Marion?’ “‘Yes, mamma,’ said nine-year-old Elsie, in her grave little way, ‘_but I don’t know what the brave is for_.’