, can't you see how far
you've drifted from your own better self to be able to laugh about it?"

"You goose!" Martie kissed the cool, lifeless cheek before she ran
upstairs with her letter. John's straight-forward sentences kept
recurring to her mind through many days. His letter seemed to bring a
bracing breath of the big city. A day or two later she and Teddy
chanced to be held in mid-street while the big Eastern passenger train
thundered by, and she shut her fingers on John's letter in her pocket,
and said eagerly, confidently, "Oh, New York! I wish I was going back!"

But Lydia wore a grave face for several days, and annoyed and amused
her younger sister with the attitude that something was wrong.

Lydia had changed more than any one of them, Martie thought, although
her life was what it had always been. She had been born in the old
house, and had moved about it for these more than thirty years almost
without an interruption. But in the last six years she had left
girlhood forever behind; she was a prim, quiet, contentedly complaining
woman now, a little too critical perhaps, a little self-righteous, but
kind and good. Lydia's will was always for the happiness of others:
Pa's comfort, Pauline's rights, and the wisest course for Martie and
Sally to take occupied her mind and time far more than any personal
interest of her own. But she had a limited vision of duty and
convention, and even Sally fretted under her sway. Her father openly
transferred his allegiance to Martie, and Lydia grieved over the
palpable injustice without the slightest appreciation of its cause.

She was infinitely helpful in times of emergency, and would take charge
of Sally's babies, if Sally were ill, or slave in Sally's nursery if
all or any of the children were indisposed. But she was not so obliging
if mere pleasure took Sally away from her maternal duties. Sally told
Martie that there was no asking Lyd to help, either she did it
voluntarily, or wild horses couldn't make her do it at all.

If her younger sisters entrusted their children to Aunt Lydia, she was
an adoring and indulgent aunt. She loved to open her cookie jar for
their raids, and to have them beg her favours or stories. But if Lydia
had expressed the opinion that it was too cold for the children to go
barefoot, and Martie or Sally revoked the decision, then Lydia wore a
dark, resentful look for hours, and was apt to vent her disapproval on
the children themselves.

"No, ge