with such cultured, interesting people would broaden the horizon of my
whole life. I have a feeling that if I could once get away, it would
somehow break the ice, and things would be different ever after." Then
she added, with a tinge of bitterness that rarely crept into her voice,
"I might as well plan to go to the moon. The round-trip ticket alone,
without the sleeping-car berth, would be at least forty dollars,
wouldn't it?"

Miss Barbara nodded. "Yes, fully that. It costs me almost that much to
go to Packertown and back, and that, you know, is a few hours this side
of Washington."

There was silence for several minutes, while Judith, already ashamed of
her outburst, stitched twice round the skirt she was making for Amy.
Then she said in a cheerful tone that somehow forbade any return to the
subject, "Tell me about Packertown, Cousin Barbara. How did you happen
to stray off there after a music class?"

The trip to Washington was mentioned no more that summer, but Miss
Barbara understood.

It was the middle of September when the old yellow omnibus rolled up for
Miss Barbara and her trunk. This time there was no returning in mad
haste after forgotten property. With a precision that was almost
fussiness, she had packed her trunk days before her departure, and her
bonnet was on an hour before train time.

"I can't help it," she said, calmly, when Judith remonstrated. "It's
just my way. I have a horror of keeping any one waiting. Habitual
disregard of punctuality in the keeping of an engagement or a promise is