at her bedside, with the enigmatical smile which spoke of some
sacred sorrow.

Aunt Aggie had shed many delicious tears over that deathbed scene, and
the chastened grief of the saintly Archdeacon, quite overshadowed by his
boundless gratitude to herself. At this crisis his overwhelming
desolation wrung from him--with gross disloyalty to the newly dead--a
few disjointed sentences which revealed only too clearly how unsuited to
him his wife had been, how little she had understood him, how lonely his
wedded life had been. She had evidently been one of those tall thin
maypoles of women who have but little tenderness in them.

Aunt Aggie, after giving the children a sample of what a real mother
could be, was to retire to her little home at Saundersfoot. Here the
real joy of the situation was to begin.

After a decent interval the Archdeacon was to be constantly visiting
Saundersfoot, was to be observed visiting Aunt Aggie at Saundersfoot,
singling her out from among the numerous spinsters of that
watering-place to make her the object of reverent attentions. Others
younger and better looking than Aunt Aggie--especially Miss Barnett, the
doctor's sister, who, it was whispered, wore an artificial cushion from
Douglas's under her hair--were to set their caps or cushions at the
dignified Archdeacon, seen pacing the sands. But it was all of no avail.
He had eyes for no one but the gentle, retiring Miss Bellairs. Aunt
Aggie was to become the object of burning jealousy and detraction on the
part of the female--that is to say almost the whole--population of
Saundersfoot. But she herself, while envious calumny raged round her,
went on her way calm and grave as ever.

But the proposal long warded off could not be parried forever. The
frenzied passion of the Archdeacon was at last not to be restrained.
Aunt Aggie had in her mind a set of proposals, all good, out of which it
became harder and harder as time went on to select one. But her answer
was ever the same, a pained but firm refusal. She was happy in her lot.
She was greatly needed where she was. She did not wish to marry. She was
no longer young. This last reason was an enormous concession to realism
on Aunt Aggie's part.

Then came the cream of the whole story. The Archdeacon was to pine
secretly. His work was to be neglected. He was to be threatened with a
nervous breakdown. He was to confide his sorrow to the paternal bosom of
his Bishop. When Aunt Aggie was in her normal