see her aunt again till dinner-time, and then there was hardly a word
uttered. Once or twice Dorothy made a little effort to speak, but
these attempts failed utterly. The old woman would hardly reply even
by a monosyllable, but simply muttered something, or shook her head
when she was addressed. Jane, who waited at table, was very demure
and silent, and Martha, who once came into the room during the meal,
merely whispered a word into Miss Stanbury's ear. When the cloth
was removed, and two glasses of port had been poured out by Miss
Stanbury herself, Dorothy felt that she could endure this treatment
no longer. How was it possible that she could drink wine under such
circumstances?

[Illustration: Aunt Stanbury at dinner will not speak.]

"Not for me, Aunt Stanbury," said she, with a deploring tone.

"Why not?"

"I couldn't drink it to-day."

"Why didn't you say so before it was poured out? And why not to-day?
Come, drink it. Do as I bid you." And she stood over her niece, as a
tragedy queen in a play with a bowl of poison. Dorothy took it and
sipped it from mere force of obedience. "You make as many bones about
a glass of port wine as though it were senna and salts," said Miss
Stanbury. "Now I've got something to say to you." By this time the
servant was gone, and the two were seated alone together in the
parlour. Dorothy, who had not as yet swallowed above half her wine,
at once put the glass down. There was an importance in her aunt's
tone which frightened her, and made her feel that some evil was
coming. And yet, as she had made up her mind that she must return
home, there was no further evil that she need dread. "You didn't
write any of those horrid articles?" said Miss Stanbury.

"No, aunt; I didn't write them. I shouldn't know how."

"And I hope you'll never learn. They say women are to vote, and
become doctors, and if so, there's no knowing what devil's tricks
they mayn't do. But it isn't your fault about that filthy newspaper.
How he can let himself down to write stuff that is to be printed on
straw is what I can't understand."

"I don't see how it can make a difference as he writes it."

"It would make a great deal of difference to me. And I'm told that
what they call ink comes off on your fingers like lamp-black. I never
touched one, thank God; but they tell me so. All the same; it isn't
your fault."

"I've nothing to do with it, Aunt Stanbury."

"Of course you've not. And as he is your b