“I’m going to visit dear Amy--you remember she was married two years ago and lives in Pasadena; she has a dear little baby and the loveliest home! It’s charming. And she was so delighted with your wedding gift, it was _so_ original. Amy never did care for costly things; these simple, unique gifts always pleased her. Of course, my main object is to see the dear child, but I shall not go to-night _unless_ Aunt Rebecca Winter is on the train. If for any reason she waits over until to-morrow I shall wait also.” “Ah,” sighed the colonel very softly, not stirring a muscle of his politely attentive face; “and does Aunt Rebecca expect to go on the train?” “They told me at the Pullman office that she had the drawing-room, the state-room and two sections. Of course, she has her maid with her and Archie--” “Does _he_ go, too?” the colonel asked, his eyes narrowing a little. “Yes, she’s taking him to California; he doesn’t seem well enough, she thinks, to go to school, so he is to have a tutor out there. I’m a little afraid Aunt Rebecca mollycoddles the boy.” “Aunt Rebecca never struck me as a molly-coddler. I always considered her a tolerably cynical old Spartan. But do you mean there is any doubt of their going? Awfully good of you to wait to see if they don’t go, but I’m sure Aunt Rebecca wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your section--” Mrs. Melville lifted a shapely hand in a Delsartian gesture of arrest; her smiling words were the last the colonel had expected. “Hush, dear Bertie; Aunt Rebecca doesn’t _know_ I am going. I don’t want her to know until we are on the train.” “Oh, I see, a surprise?” But he did _not_ see; and, with a quiet intentness, he watched the color raddle Mrs. Melville’s smooth cheeks. “Hardly,” returned the lady. “The truth is, Bertie, Melville and I are worried about Aunt Rebecca. She, we fear, has fallen under the influence of a most plausible adventuress; I suppose you have heard of her companion, Miss Smith?” “Can’t say I have exactly,” said the colonel placidly, but his eyes narrowed again. “Who is the lady?” “I thought--I am _sure_ Melville must have written you. But-- Oh, yes, he wrote yesterday to Boston. Well, Bertie, Miss Smith is a Southerner; she says she is a South Carolinian, but Aunt Rebecca picked her up in Washington, where she was with a kind of cousin of ours who was half crazy. Miss Smith took care of her and she died”--she fixed a darkling eye on the soldier--“she _died_ and she left Miss Smith money.” “Much?” “A few thousands. That is how Aunt Rebecca met her, and she pulled the wool over auntie’s eyes, and they came back together. She’s awfully clever.” “Young? Pretty?”