conflicting feelings. "But perhaps I oughtn't to take it--perhaps I
oughtn't to leave you alone--"

If Aunt Rebecca had shown any regret at the thought of Jane Lavinia's
departure, Jane Lavinia would have foregone New York on the spot. But
Aunt Rebecca only said coldly, "I guess you needn't worry over that. I
can get along well enough."

And with that it was settled. Jane Lavinia lived in a whirl of delight
for the next week. She felt few regrets at leaving Chestercote. Aunt
Rebecca would not miss her; Jane Lavinia thought that Aunt Rebecca
regarded her as a nuisance--a foolish girl who wasted her time making
pictures instead of doing something useful. Jane Lavinia had never
thought that Aunt Rebecca had any affection for her. She had been a
very little girl when her parents had died, and Aunt Rebecca had taken
her to bring up. Accordingly she had been "brought up," and she was
grateful to Aunt Rebecca, but there was no closer bond between them.
Jane Lavinia would have given love for love unstintedly, but she never
supposed that Aunt Rebecca loved her.

On the morning of departure Jane Lavinia was up and ready early. Her
trunk had been taken over to Mr. Whittaker's the night before, and she
was to walk over in the morning and go with Mr. and Mrs. Stephens to
the station. She put on her chiffon hat to travel in, and Aunt Rebecca
did not say a word of protest. Jane Lavinia cried when she said
good-by, but Aunt Rebecca did not cry. She shook hands and said
stiffly, "Write when you get to New York. You needn't let Mrs.
Stephens work you to death either."

Jane Lavinia went slowly over the bridge and up the lane. If only Aunt
Rebecca had been a little sorry! But the morning was perfect and the
air clear as crystal, and she was going to New York, and fame and
fortune were to be hers for the working. Jane Lavinia's spirits rose
and bubbled over in a little trill of song. Then she stopped in
dismay. She had forgotten her watch--her mother's little gold watch;
she had left it on her dressing table.

Jane Lavinia hurried down the lane and back to the house. In the open
kitchen doorway she paused, standing on a mosaic of gold and shadow
where the sunshine fell through the morning-glory vines. Nobody was in
the kitchen, but Aunt Rebecca was in the little bedroom that opened
off it, crying bitterly and talking aloud between her sobs, "Oh, she's
gone and left me all alone--my girl has gone! Oh, what shall I do? And
she didn't