She could not decide with that restless boy looking into her eyes and standing on tiptoes to be gone. She said, “Wait a moment, Willie,” and she ran into the parlor, shut the door, and stood silently in the darkened room to consider. Her hands hung clasped before her, her eyes were cast down, and in a painful suspense of self-seeking, she asked her heart, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” Thus she waited; wistful, intent, sorrowful, until the answer came. It came from her own conscience:
“One can always do right!”
“True!” She accepted the response immediately. “One can always do right! That settles the most difficult question. And it is right to put the pleasure of the sick and aged before my own pleasure. I will go and read to Aunt Wyk.”
She thought it no violation of duty, however, to hurry her departure, and thus be able to get the reading finished by three o’clock. Then she began to put on her hat and cloak, and Mrs. Wyk said: “What are you in such a hurry for, Yanna? Sit down, I want to tell you about my winter apples. I have been so badly used by old Van Winkle.”
“I am in a hurry this afternoon, auntie. The Filmers are leaving Woodsome, and I think some of them will want to see me. Rose was at our house yesterday—but——”
“Oh, yes! the Filmers! the Filmers! Nobody but the Filmers! Your own mother’s kin is not to be thought of if the Filmers but ring at your doorstep.”
“Dear auntie, you should not talk in that way. I will come to-morrow afternoon and finish the book.”
“Thank you! But the Filmers may want you.” And the old lady made no response to Yanna’s kiss, nor did she answer her twice repeated “Good afternoon, aunt.”
It was precisely such a result as most frequently follows a conscious exercise of self-denial; but it depressed and vexed Yanna. Her cheeks flushed to the sense of wrong, and she could hardly keep the tears out of her eyes, as she walked swiftly homeward. When she was nearly at her own gate, she heard the rattle of the Filmer dog-cart, and her heart beat rapidly, and she began instinctively to hurry her footsteps, and then consciously to moderate them to her 101 normal pace. Should she turn her face to the passing vehicle or not? The question was quickly answered. Not to do so would be pettishly self-cognizant. It stopped when near her, and she turned towards it. Harry flung the reins to his servant, and in a moment was at her side.