had
failed lately. Miss Beach was far gentler than of yore. She did not snap
her niece up so suddenly, or give vent to excited tirades about subjects
which irritated her. Sometimes she even looked at Winona with a
wistfulness that the girl noticed. It puzzled her, for it was the same
half-appealing glance that her mother often cast at her. She was
accustomed to shoulder her mother's burdens, and loved her all the more
for her helplessness and dependence. But Aunt Harriet, so strong and
determined and capable, the oracle of the family, and the very epitome
of all the cardinal virtues, surely _she_ could not want any one to lean
upon? The idea was unthinkable. Yet again and again it returned to her,
and the consciousness of it stirred new chords.

One evening Winona came rather softly into the drawing-room. Her aunt,
sitting by the window in the gathering twilight, did not hear her enter.
Miss Beach was reading, and the last little gleam of the sunset fell on
her gray hair. How worn she looked, Winona thought. It had never struck
her so forcibly before. Was that a tear shining on her cheek? Miss Beach
rose slowly, put down her book, took her handkerchief from her bag and
deliberately wiped her eyes; then, still unconscious of her niece's
presence, she went out through the French window into the garden.

Winona walked across the room, hesitated for a moment but did not
venture to follow her. Almost automatically she took up the book which
Aunt Harriet had been reading. It was a little volume of extracts, and
one had been marked with a penciled cross:--

"Put your arms around me--
There, like that:
I want a little petting
At life's setting,
For 'tis harder to be brave
When feeble age comes creeping,
And finds me weeping,
Dear ones gone.
Just a little petting
At life's setting:
For I'm old, alone and tired,
And my long life's work is done."

The tears rushed to Winona's eyes. Did Aunt Harriet really feel like
that? Oh, why could she not go and comfort her? She turned impulsively
into the garden. The slow steps were coming back up the paved walk. She
would have given worlds to walk up to her aunt and fling her arms round
her, but the old sense of shyness and reserve held her back. Miss Beach
was passing along the border, her dress brushing the flowers as she went
by. It would surely be easy to join her, and at least to take her arm!
Easy? No! She had never done such a