d Araminta, as she sank to sleep, "keep me from the
contamination of--not being married to him, for Thy sake, Amen."

XXIV

Telling Aunt Hitty

Araminta woke with the birds. As yet, it was dark, but from afar came
the cheery voice of a robin, piping gaily of coming dawn. When the
first ray of light crept into her room, and every bird for miles around
was swelling his tiny throat in song, it seemed to her that, until now,
she had never truly lived.

The bird that rocked on the maple branch, outside her window, carolling
with all his might, was no more free than she. Love had rolled away
the stone Aunt Hitty had set before the door of Araminta's heart, and
the imprisoned thing was trying its wings, as joyously as the birds
themselves.

Every sense was exquisitely alive and thrilling. Had she been older
and known more of the world, Love would not have come to her so, but
rather with a great peace, an unending trust. But having waked as
surely as the sleeping princess in the tower, she knew the uttermost
ecstasy of it--heard the sound of singing trumpets and saw the white
light.

Her fear of Aunt Hitty had died, mysteriously and suddenly. She
appreciated now, as never before, all that had been done for her. She
saw, too, that many things had been done that were better left undone,
but in her happy heart was no condemnation for anybody or anything.

Araminta dressed leisurely. Usually, she hurried into her clothes and
ran down-stairs to help Aunt Hitty, who was always ready for the day's
work before anybody else was awake but this morning she took her time.

She loved the coolness of the water on her face, she loved her white
plump arms, her softly rounded throat, the velvety roses that blossomed
on her cheeks, and the wavy brown masses of her hair, touched by the
sun into tints of copper and gold. For the first time in all her life,
Araminta realised that she was beautiful. She did not know that Love
brings beauty with it, nor that the light in her eyes, like a new star,
had not risen until last night.

She was seriously tempted to slide down the banister--this also having
been interdicted since her earliest remembrance--but, being a grown
woman, now, she compromised with herself by taking two stairs at a time
in a light, skipping, perilous movement that landed her, safe but
breathless, in the lower hall.

In the kitchen, wearing an aspect distinctly funereal, was Miss
Mehitable. Her brisk, act