ease the aching rapture in her soul by speech. She must say it
out loud. The city--the city--to the city of streets and houses
and men and wonders upon wonders!

Olivicia had come in the capacity of calm listener; for nothing
excited Olivicia.

"I," Aunt Olivia had said, but Aunt Olivia usually said "I."
There was no discouragement in that to Rebecca Mary. It did not
for a moment occur to her that "I" did not mean "we."

The valise they had got down from its cobwebby niche was roomy;
it would hold enough for two. Rebecca Mary knew that, because she
had packed it so many times in her dreamings. She wished Aunt
Olivia would let her pack it now. She knew just where she would
put everything--her best dress and Aunt Olivia's (for of course
they would wear their second-bests), their best hats and shoes
and gloves. Their nightgowns she would roll tightly and put in
one end, for it doesn't hurt nightgowns to be rolled tightly. Of
course she would not put anything heavy, like hair brushes and
shoes and things, on top of anything--unless it was the
nightgowns, for it doesn't hurt--

"Oh, Olivicia--oh, Olivicia, how I hope she'll say, 'Rebecca
Mary, you may pack the valise'! I could do it with my eyes shut,
I've done it so many, many times!"

But Aunt Olivia did not say it. One day and then another went by
without her saying it, and then one morning Rebecca Mary knew by
the plump, well-fed aspect of the valise that it was packed. Aunt