off and go to bed."

Then George Ramsey immediately made a movement towards his coat and
hat, which lay on the lounge beside Lily's wraps. "Well," he said,
with an attempt to laugh and be easy, "I must be going. I have to
take an early car to-morrow."

"I must go, too," said Lily.

They both hustled on their outer garments. They said good-evening
when they went out, but Aunt Maria did not reply. She immediately
took off Maria's water-proof and her bonnet, and slipped off her best
black silk gown. Then she took the little lamp which was lighted in
the kitchen and went up-stairs to Maria's room. She had an old shawl
over her shoulders, otherwise she was in her black quilted petticoat.
She stepped softly, and entered the spare room opposite Maria's. It
was icy cold in there. She set the lamp on the bureau and went out,
closing the door softly. It was then quite dark in the little
passageway between the spare room and Maria's. Aunt Maria stood
looking sharply at Maria's door, especially at the threshold, which
was separated from the floor quite a space by the shrinkage of the
years. The panels, too, had their crevices, through which light might
be seen. It was entirely dark. Aunt Maria opened the door of the
spare room very softly and got the little lamp off the bureau, and
tiptoed down-stairs. Then she sat down before the sitting-room stove
and pulled up her quilted petticoat till her thin legs were exposed,
to warm herself and not injure the petticoat. She looked unutterably
stern and weary. Suddenly, as she sat there, tears began to roll over
her ascetic cheeks.

"Oh, Lord!" she sighed to herself; "to think that child has got to go
through the world just the way I have, when she don't need to!"

Aunt Maria rose and got a handkerchief out of her bureau-drawer in
her little bedroom. She did not take the one in the pocket of her
gown because that was her best one, and very fine. Then she sat down
again, pulled up her petticoat again, put the handkerchief before her
poor face, and wept for herself and her niece, because of a
conviction which was over her that for both the joy of life was to
come only from the windows of others.

Chapter XXIII

Lily Merrill, going home across the yard through the storm, leaning
on George Ramsey's arm, gave a little, involuntary sob. It was a sob
half of the realization of slighted affection, half of shame. It gave
the little element of strangeness which was lacking to fascinat