“Yes. They’ve wired money for both of them to go, and stay for a month anyway, and Cousin Roxy says it’s the right thing to do. She’s going to send Mrs. Gorham, the Judge’s housekeeper, to look after us. Now, Jean, don’t put up any hurdles to jump over because it’s bad enough as it is, and Mother feels terribly. She’d never have gone if Cousin Roxy hadn’t bolstered up her courage, but they say the trip will do Father a world of good and he’ll miss the worst part of the winter, and after all, we’re not babies.” Jean was silent. It seemed as if the muscles in her throat had all tightened up and she could not say one word. They must do what was best, she knew that. It had been driven into her head for a year past, that always trying to do what was best, but still it did seem as if California were too far away for such a separation. The year before, when it had been necessary to take Mr. Robbins down to Florida, it had not seemed so hard, because at Shady Cove they were well acquainted, and surrounded by neighbors, but here—she looked out over the bleak, wintry landscape and shivered. It had been beautiful through the summer and fall, but now it was barren and cheerless. The memory of Bab’s cosy studio apartment came back to her, and a quick sense of rebellion followed against the fate that had cast them all up there in the circle of those hills. “You brace up now, Jean, and stop looking as if you could chew tacks,” Kit exclaimed, encouragingly. “We all feel badly enough and we’ve got to make the best of it, and help Mother.” The next few days were filled with preparations for the journey. Cousin Roxy came down and took command, laughing them out of their gloom, and making the Motherbird feel all would be well. “Laviny don’t hustle pretty much,” she said, speaking of old Mrs. Gorham, who had been the Judge’s housekeeper for years. “But she’s sure and steady and a good cook, and I’ll drive over every few days to see things are going along as they should, and there’s the telephone too. Bless my heart, if these big, healthy girls can’t look after themselves for a month, they must be poor spindling specimens of womanhood. I tell you, Betty, it’s trials that temper the soul and body. You trot right along and have a second honeymoon in the land of flowers. And if it’s the Lord’s will your brother should be taken, don’t rebel and pine. I always wished we had the same outlook as Bunyan did from his prison cell when he wrote of the vision on Jordan’s bank, when those left on this side sang and glorified God if one was taken home. Remember what Paul said, ‘For ye are not as those who have no hope.’ Jean, put in your mother’s summer parasol. She’s going to need it.”