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I believe she could not stand two months at Clarkman’s, thought Bertha. If I were not going to Aunt Meg’s, I would ask her to go home with me. Or even if Aunt Meg had room for another guest, I’d just write her all about Grace and ask if I could bring her with me. Aunt Meg would understand–she always understands. But she hasn’t, so it can’t be.

Just then a thought darted into Bertha’s brain.

“What nonsense!” she said aloud so suddenly and forcibly that Grace fairly jumped.

“What is?”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Bertha, getting up briskly. “See here, I’m going to get to work. I’ve wasted enough time.”

She curled herself up on the divan and tried to study her senior English. But her thoughts wandered hopelessly, and finally she gave it up in despair and went to bed. There she could not sleep; she lay awake and wrestled with herself. It was after midnight when she sat up in bed and said solemnly, “I will do it.”

Next day Bertha wrote a confidential letter to Aunt Meg. She thanked her for her invitation and then told her all about Grace.

“And what I want to ask, Aunt Meg, is that you will let me transfer my invitation to Grace, and ask her to go to Riversdale this summer in my place. Don’t think me ungrateful. No, I’m sure you won’t, you always understand things. But you can’t have us both, and I’d rather Grace should go. It will do her so much good, and I have a lovely home of my own to go to, and she has none.”

Aunt Meg understood, as usual, and was perfectly willing. So she wrote to Bertha and enclosed a note of invitation for Grace.

I shall have to manage this affair very carefully, reflected Bertha. Grace must never suspect that I did it on purpose. I will tell her that circumstances have prevented me from accepting Aunt Meg’s invitation. That is true enough–no need to say that the circumstances are hers, not mine. And I’ll say I just asked Aunt Meg to invite her in my place and that she has done so.

When Grace came home from her history examination that day, Bertha told her story and gave her Aunt Meg’s cordial note.

“You must come to me in Bertha’s place,” wrote the latter. “I feel as if I knew you from her letters, and I will consider you as a sort of honorary niece, and I’ll treat you as if you were Bertha herself.”

“Isn’t it splendid of Aunt Meg?” said Bertha diplomatically. “Of course you’ll go, Gracie.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Grace in bewilderment. “Are you sure you don’t want to go, Bertha?”

“Indeed, I do want to go, dreadfully,” said Bertha frankly. “But as I’ve told you, it is impossible. But if I am disappointed, Aunt Meg musn’t be. You must go, Grace, and that is all there is about it.”

In the end, Grace did go, a little puzzled and doubtful still, but thankful beyond words to escape the drudgery of the counter and the noise and heat of the city. Bertha went home, feeling a little bit blue in secret, it cannot be denied, but also feeling quite sure that if she had to do it all over again, she would do just the same.

The summer slipped quickly by, and finally two letters came to Bertha, one from Aunt Meg and one from Grace.

“I’ve had a lovely time,” wrote the latter, “and, oh, Bertie, what do you think? I am to stay here always. Oh, of course I am going back to school next month, but this is to be my home after this. Aunt Meg–she makes me call her that–says I must stay with her for good.”

In Aunt Meg’s letter was this paragraph:

Grace is writing to you, and will have told you that I intend to keep her here. You know I have always wanted a daughter of my own, but my greedy brothers and sisters would never give me one of theirs. So I intend to adopt Grace. She is the sweetest girl in the world, and I am very grateful to you for sending her here. You will not know her when you see her. She has grown plump and rosy.

Bertha folded her letters up with a smile. “I have a vague, delightful feeling that I am the good angel in a storybook,” she said.