was sorry, after all, that she was going to Boston to live, she said,
no, no, no, indeed, she guessed she wasn't. She was just as glad as
glad could be that she was going, only she wished Monday would hurry
up and come so we could be gone.

And that's all. It's Saturday now, and we go just day after to-morrow.
Our trunks are 'most packed, and Mother says she wishes she'd planned
to go to-day. I've said good-bye to all the girls, and promised to
write loads of letters about Boston and everything. They are almost as
excited as I am; and I've promised, "cross my heart and hope to die,"
that I won't love those Boston girls better than I do them--specially
Carrie Heywood, of course, my dearest friend.

Nurse Sarah is hovering around everywhere, asking to help, and
pretending she's sorry we're going. But she isn't sorry. She's glad.
I know she is. She never did appreciate Mother, and she thinks she'll
have everything her own way now. But she won't. _I_ could tell her a
thing or two if I wanted to. But I shan't.

Father's sister, Aunt Jane Anderson, from St. Paul, is coming to keep
house for him, partly on account of Father, and partly on account of
me. "If that child is going to be with her father six months of the
time, she's got to have some woman there beside a meddling old nurse
and a nosey servant girl!" They didn't know I heard that. But I did.
And now Aunt Jane is coming. My! how mad Nurse Sarah would be if she
knew. But she doesn't.

I guess I'll end this chapter here and begin a fresh one down in
Boston. Oh, I do so wonder what it'll be like--Boston, Mother's home,
Grandpa Desmond, and all the rest. I'm so excited I can hardly wait.