e half a dozen handkerchiefs like
these," said she, "I should have thanked her. Anybody in their senses
would rather have half a dozen nice handkerchiefs than a set of
Shakespeare. That is, if they said just what they meant. I know some
folks would be ashamed of not thinking much of Shakespeare. As for
me, I say what I mean." Aunt Maria tossed her head as she spoke.

She grew daily more like her brother Henry. The family traits in each
became more accentuated. Each posed paradoxically as not being a
poser. Aunt Maria spoke her mind so freely and arrogantly that she
was not much of a favorite in Amity, although she commanded a certain
measure of respect from her strenuous exertions at her own trumpet,
which more than half-convinced people of the accuracy of her own
opinion of herself. Sometimes Maria herself was irritated by her
aunt, but she loved her dearly. She was always aware, too, of Aunt
Maria's unspoken, but perfect approbation and admiration for herself,
Maria, and of a certain sympathy for her, which the elder woman had
the delicacy never to speak of. She had become aware that Maria,
while she repulsed George Ramsey, was doing so for reasons which she
could not divine, and that she suffered because of it.

One afternoon, not long after Christmas, when Maria returned from
school, almost the first words which her aunt said to her were, "I do
hate to see a young man made a fool of."

Maria turned pale, and looked at her aunt.

"George Ramsey went past here sleigh-riding with Lily Merrill a
little while ago," said Aunt Maria. "That girl's making a fool of
him!"

"Lily is a nice girl, Aunt Maria," Maria said, faintly.

"Nice enough, but she can't come up to him. She never can. And when
one can't come up, the other has to go down. I've seen it too many
times not to know. There's sleigh-bells now. I guess it's them coming
back. Yes, it is."

Maria did not glance out of the window, and the sleigh, with its
singing bells, flew past. She went wearily up to her own room, and
removed her wraps before supper. Maria had a tiny coal-stove in her
room now, and that was a great comfort to her. She could get away by
herself, when she chose, and sometimes the necessity for so doing was
strong upon her. She wished to think, without Aunt Maria's sharp eyes
upon her, searching her thoughts. Emotion in Maria was reaching its
high-water mark; the need for concealing, lest it be profaned by
other eyes, was over her. Maria felt