“Is Rebecca Mary bringing you up?”
Aunt Olivia sometimes thought so. The puzzle that she had begun to try to solve when Rebecca Mary's white, death-struck mother had laid her baby in Aunt Olivia's unaccustomed arms was getting a little more difficult every day. Some days Aunt Olivia wondered if she ought to give it up. Oh, this bringing up—this bringing up of little children!
“If I must,” groaned Aunt Olivia, and got as far as taking the little diary in her hands. But she got no farther. She laid it gently down again.
“I can't,” she said, firmly, but she could not look Duty in the face as she said it. She had always listened to Duty before.
“You know you ought to—”
“Yes, I know, but I can't! It seems a shameful thing to do. I'm sure I've tried often enough—you know I've tried—”
“I know—that was good practice. Now stop trying and read it!”
Aunt Olivia flamed up. “I tell you I won't! It's a shameful thing. If I found Rebecca Mary reading one of my diaries, I should send her to bed—”
“Read hers and go to bed yourself. It's your duty to read it. When you bring up a child—”
“I never will again!”