“I’m so glad you’re to have the runnin’ of Jack,” the old lady declared sincerely. “All I ask of you is to be patient with him. I always was. That is, most always.”
“Dear Aunt Mary,” said Mrs. Rosscott, slipping down on her knees beside the bed, “you are so good to me that you encourage me to tell you my secret. It isn’t long, and it isn’t bad, but I have a confession to make.”
“Oh, I say,” cried Jack, “if you put it that way let me do the owning up!”
“Hush,” said his love authoritatively, “it’s my confession. Leave it to me.”
“What is it?” said Aunt Mary, looking anxiously from one to the other; “you haven’t broke your engagement already, I hope.”
“No,” said Mrs. Rosscott, “it’s nothing like that. It’s only rather a surprise. But it’s a nice surprise,—at least, I hope you’ll think that it is.”
“Well, hurry and tell me then,” said the old lady. “I’m a great believer in bein’ told good news as soon as possible. What is it?”
“It’s that I’m not a maid,” said the pretty widow.
“Not—a—” cried Aunt Mary blankly.
“I’m a widow!” said Janice. “I’m Burnett’s sister.”