But, a few minutes later, when Aunt Betsy paid her three dollars in advance and engaged to call for the photographs,—"Thank you, I would rather not give my address or have them sent home—I want to surprise my folks,"—a delicious feeling came over her of living in a wonderful age, and of being, at last, fully abreast of the times.
Some days of suppressed excitement passed, and at last the photographs were finished and delivered into her hands, and she knew, with a guilty knowledge, that the time had come for her to "surprise her folks." She hurried home, looking neither to the right nor to the left, the precious package buried in the depths of her pocket, entered the house surreptitiously as a burglar, and crept up to her own room. When the door was securely fastened, she took a long breath, and then proceeded, not to examine the pictures, but to put her bonnet and shawl carefully away, smooth her hair with a fine-tooth comb, and adjust her cap before the glass; then she tied on her black silk apron, and sat down by the open window, holding the little package in her hand.
It was a brilliant September day, and she sat looking out into the great horse-chestnut tree before the window. Her father had planted it forty-five years ago, for he liked to have horse-chestnuts "handy." He firmly believed that they would ward off rheumatism if carried in the pocket; and sure enough, as Aunt Betsy reflected,
