“‘Don’t shut the door, Mary,’ said aunt Marion. ‘Why don’t you go and play with the rest?’
“‘I don’t want to play,’ I answered pettishly.
“‘Then you must be tired—you had better go to bed. Willie, ring the bell, please.’
“‘No,’ I cried passionately, in a heat at this interruption, ‘no, I am not tired.’
“I watched for the striking of the clock. I knew that at eight we must all retire. There would be no help for it then, and I listened as if my doom were to be sounded. John came in with the letters, the nurse carried baby away—I knew it was almost time. I was on the rack, my eyes were wide open, my cheek burned, my ear almost ached, my heart fluttered—I held my hands tightly clasped.
“‘There! clear and prompt, one, two—till eight strokes rang out, and the children filed in, flushed and sleepy, to say good-night. I unclasped my fingers; nerveless, weak and trembling, I tottered to aunt Marion—the unnatural strain had relaxed and left me ready to drop. I looked up at her imploringly, saying:
“‘Oh! Auntie, let me stay a little longer;’ and waited for her answer, as if my life hung on her words.
“‘No, my dear, you will be ill—you look wretched now; I should think this day was enough. Are you never satisfied?’
“Something in my throat choked me, the tears began to come, they rained over my cheeks. I must stay.
“‘Just a little longer, Auntie—oh, please.’