et I have kept it back."

"It is safe, in your closet, Miss Cassandra; and the box is there."

"Aunt Merce," I called, "will you have nothing to eat?"

She laughed hysterically, when she saw what I had done.

"Where is Hepsey, Aunt Merce?"

"She goes to bed after dinner, you know, for an hour or two."

"She must go from here."

"Oh!" they both chorused, "what for?"

"She is too old."

"She _has_ money, and a good house," said Aunt Merce, "if she must go.
I wonder how Mary stood it so long."

"Turn 'em off," said Fanny, "when they grow useless."

Aunt Merce reddened, and looked hurt.

"I shall keep _you_; look sharp now after your own disinterestedness."

I wanted to go to my room, as I thought it time to arrange my trunks
and boxes; besides, I needed rest--the sad luxury of reaction. But
word was brought to the house that Arthur had disappeared, in company
with two boys notorious for mischief. His teacher was afraid they
might have put out to sea in a crazy sailboat. We were in a state of
alarm till dark, when father came home, bringing him, having found
him on the way to Milford. Veronica had not returned. It stormed
violently, and father was vexed because a horse must be sent through
the storm for her. At last I obtained the asylum of my room, in an
irritable frame of mind, convinced that such would be my condition
each day. Composure came with putting my drawers and shelves in order.
The box with Desmond's flowers I threw into the fire, without opening
it, ribbon and all, for I could not endure the sight of them. I
unfolded the dresses I had worn on the occasions of my meeting him;
even the collars and ribbons I had adorned myself with were conned
with jealous, greedy eyes; in looking at them all other remembrances
connected with my visit vanished. The handkerchief scented with
violets, which I found in the pocket of the dress I had worn when I
met him at Mrs. Hepburn's, made me childish. I was holding it when
Veronica entered, bringing with her an atmosphere of dampness.

"Violet! I like it. There is not one blooming yet, Temperance says.
Why are they so late? There's only this pitiful snake-grass," holding
up a bunch of drooping, pale blossoms.

"Oh, Verry, can you forgive me? I did not forget these, but I felt the
strangest disinclination to look them up." And I gave her the jewel
box and letter.

She seized them, and opened the box first.

"Child-Verry."

"I never was a child, you know; but