ot
a hook nose and white hair done up over a roll and an eye-glass on a
stick, and I guess there won't be no nimps and shepherdesses get by
HER."

Aunt Elizabeth stood and thought for a minute, and her eyes looked as
they do when she stares through you and doesn't see you at all. Alice
asked Charles Edward once if he thought she was sorrowing o'er the past
when she had that look, and he said: "Bless you, chile, no more than a
gentle industrious spider. She's spinning a web." But in a minute mother
had stepped out on the piazza, and I felt as if she had come to my
rescue. It was the way she used to come when I broke my doll or tore my
skirt. But we didn't look at each other, mother and I. We didn't mean
Aunt Elizabeth should see there was anything to rescue me from. Aunt
Elizabeth turned to mother, and seemed to pounce upon her.

"Ada," said she, "has my engagement been announced?"

"Not to my knowledge," said mother. She spoke with a great deal
of dignity. "I understood that the name of the gentleman had been
withheld."

"Withheld!" repeated Aunt Elizabeth. "What do you mean by 'withheld'?
Billy, whom are those letters for?"

In spite of ourselves mother and I started. Letters have begun to seem
rather tragic to us.

"One's the gas-bill," said Billy, "and one's for you." Aunt Elizabeth
took the large, square envelope and tore it open. Then she looked at
mother and smiled a little and tossed her head.

"This is from Lyman Wilde," said she.

I thought I had never seen Aunt Elizabeth look so young. It must have
meant something more to mother than it did to me, for she stared at her
a minute very seriously.

"I am truly glad for you, Elizabeth," she said. Then she turned to me.
"Daughter," said she, "I shall need you about the salad."

She smiled at me and went in. I knew what that meant. She was giving
me a chance to follow her, if I needed to escape. But there was hardly
time. I was at the door when Aunt Elizabeth rustled after so quickly
that it sounded like a flight. There on the piazza she put her arms
about me.

"Child!" she whispered. "Child! Verlassen! Verlassen!"

I drew away a little and looked at her. Then I thought: "Why, she is
old!" But I hadn't understood. I knew the word was German, and I hadn't
taken that in the elective course.

"What is it. Aunt Elizabeth?" I asked. I had a feeling I mustn't leave
her. She smiled a little--a queer, sad smile.

"Peggy," said she, "I want you to read this