sent her flying behind the half-open door.

"What has become of Charlotte?" she heard Aunt Virginia ask.

"I am sure I don't know," responded Aunt Caroline.

"And what is more, you don't care," added Charlotte, under her breath.

When the door had closed behind them, she ran to the window and
watched as they went down the walk and entered the waiting carriage.
Two very charming ladies, an unprejudiced observer might have
pronounced them. A little precise in their elegance, perhaps, but
pleasant to look upon, especially Aunt Caroline, from head to foot a
shimmer of silver gray. Aunt Caroline was Mrs. Millard, the widow of
an army officer, and Charlotte had expected to like her best; but
after all, Aunt Virginia, who was only Miss Wilbur, had proved the
least objectionable.

She was not so handsome, but seemed kinder; and when she laughed,
Charlotte always felt a little thrill of sympathy. When Aunt Caroline
laughed, it was in a reserved, controlled manner. Charlotte had
arrived at the conclusion that Aunt Virginia stood in awe of her
sister; and this might have been a bond of union if it had been
possible to become really acquainted, but Aunt Virginia held aloof.
It was almost as if she were afraid of Charlotte, too. Still there was
something rather nice about her. Charlotte hardly realized how often
she returned to this opinion.

When they had driven away, she went to the library,--a less formidable
apartment than the drawing-room,--and making herself comfortable in an
arm-chair by the window, began to consider what she should say to
Cousin Francis, for she had decided that pouring out her soul in a
letter would, after all, be more satisfactory than tears.

She looked out across the garden to where, on the other side of
Pleasant Street, stood the little corner shop with its gray-green
shingles, its upper windows all aglow in the afternoon sunshine.
Before it stood a furniture van, and Charlotte idly watched the
unloading.

She had made up her mind that life here was going to be hopelessly
dull. She swung her foot listlessly, and, forgetting her letter,
thought of Aunt Cora's home in a gay little suburb where something was
always going on,--teas, dinners, receptions, where, although in the
background, she had had her share of the excitement.

At the Landors', where she sometimes spent several weeks while Aunt
Cora, worn by her strenuous social life, went down to Atlantic City to
recuperate, it was much quieter