doubt
papa will write to her too."

But when she went into the garden, where her aunt was venturing to court
the sunshine, she found her actually in tears.

"Your father has written me a most unfeeling letter," said the poor
lady, sitting on a seat, and before Edith could utter a word. "Because
he is better off he wants to take you away. He seems not to think in the
least of my lonely state, or that I may have grown attached to you, but
suggests that you should return home as soon as we can arrange it,
without the least regard for my feelings."

"Papa would never think you cared so much, Aunt Rachel. Would you really
rather I should stay, then?"

"Child, I could never go back to my old solitary life again. I did not
mean to tell you, and perhaps I am not wise to do so now, but I will say
it, Edith--I have grown to love you, my dear, and if you love me, you
will not think of going away and leaving me to illness and solitude.
Your father and mother have all their other children--I have nothing and
no one but you. Promise that you will stay with me?"

[Sidenote: "I have Grown to Love you!"]

"I must think about it, aunt," said Edith, much moved by her aunt's
words. "Oh, do not think me ungrateful, but it will be very hard for me
to decide; and perhaps papa will not let me decide for myself."

But when Edith, in her own room, came to consider all her aunt's claim,
it really seemed that she had no right, at least if her parents would
consent to her remaining, to abandon one who had done so much for her.
It was, indeed, as she had said, a very difficult choice; there was the
old, happy, tempting life at Winchcomb, the pleasant home where she
might now return, and live with the dear brothers and sisters without
feeling herself a burden upon her father's strained resources; and there
was the quiet monotonous daily round at Ivy House, the exacting invalid,
the uncongenial work, the lack of all young companionship, that already
seemed so hard to bear.

And yet, Edith thought, she really ought to stay. Wonderful as it
seemed, Aunt Rachel had grown to love her. How could she say to the
lonely, stricken woman, "I will go, and leave you alone"?

"Well, Edith?" said Miss Harley eagerly, when her niece came in again
after a prolonged absence.

"I will stay, Aunt Rachel, if my father will let me. I feel that I
cannot--ought not--to leave you after all that you have done for me."

So it was settled, after some demur on Dr. H