"Aunt Hannah, I am glad you are here," said the youth, moving slowly toward his seat by the stand; "I want to talk a little with you!"
Mary had drawn back as he came in; there was no candle lighted, and she was lost in shadow.
As he spoke, Mary started and would have gone out, but aunt Hannah extended her hands to prevent it, and the youth sat down sighing heavily, doubtless unconscious of her presence. Two or three times, as was his habit when thoughtful, he drew the slender fingers of his right hand through his hair, scattering the curls back on his temples. At length he spoke, but with hesitation.
"Aunt!"
"Well, Joseph!" and the old lady began to knit.
"Aunt, I come to say"—He paused, and drew the hand once or twice across his forehead, as if to sweep aside some inward pain. Aunt Hannah remained silent, knitting diligently.
"I must go away from here, aunt; you have given me shelter when I most needed it. Now I must take to the world again."
Mary listened with a sinking heart and parted lips that grew cold and white with each word. At last a wild sob arose in her throat, and the veins upon her forehead swelled with the effort she made to suppress it.
"You wish to leave us, then?" questioned aunt Hannah, coldly, "and why?"
"My life is idle here, utterly idle and dependent. God did not smite all the pride from my soul when he took my father. I cannot live on the toil of two old people whom my own hands should support."