Why, I could have hugged him, I was so glad. But of course I didn't, right before all those people. But he was so tall and handsome and splendid, and I felt so proud to be walking along the platform with him and letting folks see that he'd come to meet me! But I couldn't say anything--not anything, the way I wanted to; and all I could do was to stammer out: "Why, where's Aunt Jane?" And that's just the thing I didn't _want_ to say; and I knew it the minute I'd said it. Why, it sounded as if I missed Aunt Jane, and wanted _her_ instead of _him_, when all the time I was so pleased and excited to see him that I could hardly speak. I don't know whether Father liked it, or minded it. I couldn't tell by his face. He just kind of smiled, and looked queer, and said that Aunt Jane--er--couldn't come. Then _I_ felt sorry; for I saw, of course, that that was why _he_ had come; not because he wanted to, but because Aunt Jane couldn't, so he had to. And I could have cried, all the while he was fixing it up about my trunk. He turned then and led the way straight over to where the carriages were, and the next minute there was John touching his cap to me; only it was a brand-new John looking too sweet for anything in a chauffeur's cap and uniform. And, what do you think? He was helping me into that beautiful big green car before I knew it. "Why, Father, Father!" I cried. "You don't mean"--I just couldn't finish; but he finished for me. "It is ours--yes. Do you like it?" "Like it!" I guess he didn't need to have me say any more. But I did say more. I just raved and raved over that car until Father's eyes crinkled all up in little smile wrinkles, and he said: "I'm glad. I hoped you'd like it." "I guess I do like it!" I cried. Then I went on to tell him how I thought it was the prettiest one I ever saw, and 'way ahead of even Mr. Easterbrook's. "And, pray, who is Mr. Easterbrook?" asked Father then. "The violinist, perhaps--eh?" Now, wasn't it funny he should have remembered that there was a violinist? But, of course, I told him no, it wasn't the violinist. It was another one that took Mother to ride, the one I told him about in the Christmas letter; and he was very rich, and had two perfectly beautiful cars; and I was going on to tell more--how he didn't take Mother now--but I didn't get a chance, for Father interrupted, and said, "Yes, yes, to be sure." And he _showed_ he wasn't interested, for all the little smile wrinkles were gone, and he looked stern and dignified, more like he used to. And he went on to say that, as we had almost reached home, he had better explain right away that Aunt Jane was no longer living there; that his cousin from the West, Mrs. Whitney, was keeping house for him now. She was a very nice lady, and he hoped I would like her. And I might call her "Cousin Grace."