took her at her word if any access of ill
temper, or despair, or drowsiness occasioned banishment from the
presence. Not that we had always been so calm about it; there was a time
when we were excited with every alarm, thrown into flurries and panics
quite to Aunt Pen's mind, running after the doctor at two o'clock of the
morning, building a fire in the range ourselves at midnight to make
gruel for her, rubbing her till we rubbed the skin off our hands,
combing her hair till we went to sleep standing; but Aunt Pen had cried
wolf so long, and the doctors had all declared so stoutly that there was
no wolf, that our once soft hearts had become quite hard and concrete.

When at last Aunt Pen had had an alarm from nearly every illness for
which the pharmacopoeia prescribes, and she knew that neither we nor
the doctors would listen to the probability of their recurrence; she had
an attack of "sinking." No, there was no particular disease, she used to
say, only sinking; she had been pulled down to an extent from which she
had no strength to recuperate; she was only sinking, a little weaker
to-day than she was yesterday--only sinking. But Aunt Pen ate a very
good breakfast of broiled birds and toast and coffee; a very good lunch
of cold meats and dainties, and a great goblet of thick cream; a very
good dinner of soup and roast and vegetables and dessert, and perhaps a
chicken bone at eleven o'clock in the evening. And when the saucy little
Israel, who carried up her tray, heard her say she was sinking, he
remarked that it was because of the load on her stomach.

One day, I remember, Aunt Pen was very much worse than usual. We were
all in her room, a sunshiny place which she had connected with the
adjoining one by sliding-doors, so that it might be big enough for us
all to bring our work on occasion, and make it lively for her. She had
on a white-cashmere dressing-gown trimmed with swan's-down, and she lay
among the luxurious cushions of a blue lounge, with a paler blue
blanket, which she had had one of us tricot for her, lying over her
feet, and altogether she looked very ideal and ethereal; for Aunt Pen
always did have such an eye to picturesque effect that I don't know how
she could ever consent to the idea of mouldering away into dust like
common clay.

She had sent Maria down for Mel and me to come up-stairs with whatever
occupied us, for she was convinced that she was failing fast, and knew
we should regret it if we did