" would say my mother; "there is no hurry; for
some reasons I shall be sorry to leave Poplar."

"For what reasons, mother?"

"Oh, well, no particular reason, Paul. Only we have lived there so long,
you know. It will be a wrench leaving the old house."

To the making of man go all things, even to the instincts of the
clinging vine. We fling our tendrils round what is the nearest
castle-keep or pig-stye wall, rain and sunshine fastening them but
firmer. Dying Sir Walter Scott--do you remember?--hastening home from
Italy, fearful lest he might not be in time to breathe again the damp
mists of the barren hills. An ancient dame I knew, they had carried her
from her attic in slumland that she might be fanned by the sea breezes,
and the poor old soul lay pining for what she called her "home." Wife,
mother, widow, she had lived there till the alley's reek smelt good
to her nostrils, till its riot was the voices of her people. Who shall
understand us save He who fashioned us?

So the old house held us to its dismal bosom; and not until within its
homely but unlovely arms, first my aunt, and later on my mother had
died, and I had said good-bye to Amy, crying in the midst of littered
emptiness, did I leave it.

My aunt died as she had lived, grumbling.

"You will be glad to get rid of me, all of you!" she said, dropping for
the first and last time I can recollect into the retort direct; "and I
can't say I shall be very sorry to go myself. It hasn't been my idea of
life."

Poor old lady! That was only a couple of weeks before the end. I do not
suppose she guessed it was so certain or perhaps she might have been
more sentimental.

"Don't be foolish," said my mother, "you're not going to die!"

"What's the use of talking like an idiot," retorted my aunt, "I've got
to do it some time. Why not now, when everything's all ready for it. It
isn't as if I was enjoying myself."

"I am sure we do all we can for you," said my mother. "I know you do,"
replied my aunt. "I'm a burden to you. I always have been."

"Not a burden," corrected my mother.

"What does the woman call it then," snapped back my aunt. "Does she
reckon I've been a sunbeam in the house? I've been a trial to everybody.
That's what I was born for; it's my metier."

My mother put her arms about the poor old soul and kissed her. "We
should miss you very much," she said.

"I'm sure I hope they all will!" answered my aunt. "It's the only thing
I've got to leave 'e