Jack went back. Then they all got into the street and into the cabs. Aunt Mary and Jack went first, Mitchell and Burnett second, and Clover brought up the rear alone. They set off and it must be admitted that the effect of the three cabs going single file one after another with their five occupants giving forth a most imperfect version of his or her favorite tune, was at once novel and awe-inspiring. But like all sweet things upon this earth the concert was not of long endurance. It was only a few minutes before the duos ceased utterly to duo and the soloist in the rear fell sound asleep. For several blocks there was a mournful and tell-tale lack of harmony upon the air and then the three young men seemed to have exhausted their mouths and all lapsed into a more or less conscious state of quietude. Only Aunt Mary was indefatigable. Like Cleopatra, age seemed to have no power to stale her infinite variety, and leaning back in her own corner she continued to placidly and peacefully intone with disregard for time and tune which never ruffled a wrinkle. She hadn’t played on a jews-harp in sixty years, and being deaf she was pleasantly astonished at how well she still did it. Jack leaned in his corner with folded arms; he was deeply conscious of wishing that it was the next day—any day—any other day—for the week had been a wearing one and he could not but be mortally glad that it was so nearly over. The task of fitting the plan of Aunt Mary’s revelries to the measure of her personal capacity had been a very hard one and his soul panted for relief therefrom. It is one thing to undertake a task and another thing to persevere to its successful completion. Aunt Mary’s nephew was tired—very tired. A little later he felt a weight against him; he looked; it was Aunt Mary’s head,—she was oblivious there on his bosom. He heard a voice; it was the parrot. “Now see what you’ve done,” it said in sepulchral tones. They reached the house, bore the honored guest within, and delivered her to Janice. “You can have that parrot,” Jack called back to the cabman. “He’s guaranteed against slang.” The cabman drove away. Janice received them with a look which might have been construed in many ways, but they were all far past construing and the look fell to the ground unheeded. And again Aunt Mary was tucked carefully up to dream herself rested once more. Chapter Eighteen A Departure And A Return The next day poor Aunt Mary had to undergo the ordeal of being obliged to turn her face away from all those joys which had so suddenly and brilliantly altered the hues of life for her. It pretty nearly used her up. She took her reviving decoction with tears standing in her eyes,—and sat down the glass with a bursting sigh. “My, but I wish I knew when I’d be taking any more of this?” she said to Janice. “Oh, you’ll come back to the city some day,” said the maid hopefully.