Dorothy was provided with an aid to uprightness in the shape of a slice
of bread and butter, and the others seated themselves on the porch to
await Aunt Abigail's return. It is an open secret that time spent in
waiting invariably drags. The wittiest find their ideas deserting them
under such circumstances. The most congenial friends have nothing to say
to each other. There are, as a rule, any number of things one can do
while one is waiting, but unluckily there is nothing one feels inclined
to do. Up till one o'clock conversation was spasmodic. For the next half
hour silence reigned, and each face became expressive of a sense of
injury and patient suffering. At quarter of two, open revolt was
reached.

"Peggy, how much longer are you going to wait?" Amy demanded.
"Everything is probably spoiled by now."

Peggy did her best to be encouraging. "Oh, not exactly spoiled. But it
doesn't do a dinner any good to wait an hour or two after it is cooked."

"Why not sit down? She's sure to be here by the time we're fairly
started," suggested Ruth.

"I'd as soon wait as not." Claire's face was angelically patient. "I
haven't a bit of appetite any more. I suppose it's because my head
always begins to ache so if I don't eat at the regular hour."

Peggy rose to her feet rather hastily. "Come on," she said briskly.
"We'll begin. Probably that'll be just the way to bring her." And she
wondered why it was that Claire's patient sweetness was so much more
trying than Amy's fretful complaint.

But the device for bringing Aunt Abigail home proved unsuccessful. Peggy
put her dinner on the back of the stove to keep warm, and it was still
simmering, undisturbed, when the platter and the various serving dishes
on the table had been scraped clean, for the loss of appetite of which
Claire complained was by no means universal. The work of clearing the
table and washing the dishes was usually protracted, for every other
minute some one ran out on the porch to see if Aunt Abigail were
approaching. By three o'clock a general uneasiness began to make itself
evident.

"I believe I'll go over to the place where those ferns grow," Peggy
declared. "Even if she's forgotten all about her dinner, it can't be
good for her to go so long without eating. Don't you want to come with
me, Amy?"

Amy, who seemed less concerned than any of the company, blithely
accepted the invitation. "We'll probably find her with a great armful of
ferns and her hat tipped