When two days had passed and their aunt had not yet appeared, her nieces were not unnecessarily alarmed, for her attachment to her old home was great, and it required no unusual degree of imagination to picture her delighted lingering over the old things, her purposely prolonged transaction of business details. But four days of unexplained absence had its effect upon their own little ménage; and when a week's visit had been accomplished and their beseeching letters had elicited only vague postal cards explaining nothing, but suggesting their presence at the farm, they became convinced of the necessity for action on their part, and went, more or less in the presumable spirit of the mountain in search of the fractious Prophet. Tired and cross after four hours' travel on an incredibly hot 1st of April, they walked sternly up the board walk that led to the old-style porch, to be greeted by their cousin, who sat in snowy shirtsleeves, tilted back in his chair against the house, smoking his fat, dark cigar. “Welcome home, girls--glad to see you!” he called cheerily. “Here they are, Jule! Now don't be afraid, but come right out and see them!” “Why, bless your heart, Lorando, I'm not afraid,” a familiar voice answered; and Aunt Julia appeared before them, cool in blue checked gingham, with an enveloping white apron and familiarly floury hands. “I'm just beating up some biscuit for tea,” she explained, “but I guess you can shake hands with me, girls “; and as she extended both arms hospitably they saw upon her floured left hand an unmistakable shining gold band. “Aunt Jule!” they gasped together. “Are you--is it--” “That's it exactly,” said Cousin Lorando Bean. “She is. And I hope you'll congratulate her, girls, though nobody knows better than I what a good housekeeper you've lost! I'll tell you the facts of the matter, and you can judge for yourself. If ever two people were made for each other, those two are your Aunt Jule and me. We love the country, and we love this farm, and what's very important, we love the same way of living.” “That's quite true, Carrie--lyn,” Aunt Julia interposed, the tears in her eyes, but a new decision in her voice. “I like my tea at night, and so does your Cousin Lorando. And I should have wanted gravy on my potato if I lived to be a hundred. And, Carrie, I _could not live_ without a cellar! “And if you knew how nervous I got when that old dumb-waiter in the kitchen used to whistle for the things to be put on it! I used to hate it so--sometimes I'd wake up in the night and think I heard it! Once I lost my temper at it, and I answered it back: 'I haven't anything to go down, and I wouldn't give it to you if I had!'” “Why, Aunt Jule!” they cried. “And I tell you, Carrie, when you have cleaned house regularly, spring and fall, for forty years, ever since you were born, it makes an awful break to give it up! And I do love a good crayon portrait.” They looked at each other in silence.