“O Aunt Marion!” and she gasped for breath.
“Maimie, how could you? We cannot part with you, darling.”
“Oh, it must be. It would have come to this sooner or later. Father will not give me up, you see. And I ought to be there,—I ought to be there.”
“But so short a notice,” I said sorrowfully.
“That is his way of punishing me. Was I wrong to speak to him as I did? I wish I could love him more. But don’t make me cry—don’t. I must go. O Aunt Marion!”
“What will your Uncle say?” I asked, with a kind of stunned feeling.
“I don’t know. You will tell him all. He will understand. And perhaps I shall only be a few days away. Father may get tired of me. I shall be on the spot, and perhaps I can do something—perhaps. But I must not waste time.”
She hurried upstairs, and threw her clothes into it trunk with feverish haste.
“I shall not take much,—only enough for a visit. Things can easily be sent or fetched. And this will always be home to me still—always. I shall try to come very soon and see you all. But if I don’t, you will understand. Perhaps at first he may not let me.”
I was weeping by this time, while Maimie seemed to have no tears to shed. She only looked flushed and burdened.