When she made her kitchen fire and cooked breakfast, all the high enthusiasm of the evening before had vanished. She hated to meet Grace and break the news, dreaded to see the eager interest fade from her face.

As soon as Grace came down the old enclosed stairway, Abbie told her. “Grace, I can’t go.”

“Why, Mother! I thought last night you would.”

“No, I can’t, Grace. But you don’t know how I appreciate your thinking of it, and wanting me. Don’t I realize how much easier it would be for you to get around without me? Well, that makes me appreciate it all the more. It’s one of the nicest, if not the very nicest thing you ever did for me,—to come home to talk it over. But I can’t go.”

“I think you’re making a mistake. Mother. I’m quite sure you could get through the trip all right.”

“No, Grace. I’m more disappointed than you can ever realize. I’m so disappointed that I almost wish you hadn’t put it into my head. Isn’t that childish? Last night I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. I was that excited . . . but when I woke up this morning from a little nap I had, I knew I couldn’t go. I have pains in my knees sometimes until the tears come. And my spells of asthma are coming a little closer. I’m tied to a whole row of little bottles on the top pantry shelf. You wouldn’t want me to have a spell of asthma in front of the Louvre or have to sit down on the Bridge of Sighs because I was all out of breath. It wouldn’t be appropriate somehow. All the time my heart tells me to go, my mind says not. Desire says one thing and good sense another.”

“I thought you would love it so.”

“Oh, Grace, I would . . . when I was younger, how I would! Things just don’t connect sometimes. When I was young I had no means or time, and now I have the means and time, I have no youth.”

“Well, I don’t want to be responsible about urging you against your judgment, of course. But I’m certainly sorry. I said to myself, ‘I’ll get half of my enjoyment from seeing Mother’s enthusiasm.’ ”

“Thank you, dearie, for the thought, but I’ll stay home and read about the trip. You write me from all the places you stop. And I’ll just stay in my chair and travel with you. And if anybody could take a trip that way I know I can, for I’ve always thrilled over reading travels.”

Grace was loath to accept the decision. “As I said, I’m sorry. You owe it to yourself, if you possibly can go. Your life has been so narrow, Mother . . . just here, all the time. You ought to get out now and see things.”