AS every mother knows, all families have invariably one trunk too few. This is one of the mysteries of life; no scientist has yet arisen to explain why it is that with every trunk and bag packed to the bursting point there yet remain bulky objects—sweaters, shoes, raincoats—to say nothing of toilet articles and the last little odds and ends that one has discovered yet to be tucked away into the non-existent spaces in the trunks.
And it was with this one trunk too few that Alice began to pack trunks for the vacation by the seashore. She packed for a while swiftly and with marvelous good temper, considering that Sara insisted upon helping her.
There is scarcely a woman in the world who does not think of Herod as one of the noblest characters in history if her children happen to be about when she is packing her trunks, and Alice reflected that she was a sort of super-mother in that she could endure Sara's prattle which went:
"Now we put this pile here, and the other pile there and tuck stockings in the corner, and, oh, Mother, can I try on your shawl? If I was a boy, this is how I'd look, Mother." This with Jamie's hat on the back of her head.
This was all very well, but when it came to saying: "Now let's put all my dollies in the trunk," Alice protested.
"Sara," she said, "you can't put all your dolls in."
"Not put in all my dollies?" said Sara, and she frowned dramatically.
