"No, she died when I was very small. And father, when I was about ten.
Then, as I've told you, I lived four years with Aunt Amanda—"
"In Arizona?"
"Yes; in a small settlement,—hardly even a village,—called Horner's
Corners."
Patty laughed. "What a darling name! How could anybody call a place that! Suppose it had grown to be a large city."
"Then they would probably have changed the name. Perhaps they have already done so,—I haven't heard from there for years."
"Why didn't you keep up your relatives' acquaintance?"
"Well, Aunt Amanda died, later, and her husband never cared much for me, anyhow. So we drifted apart, and never drifted together again."
"Wasn't your aunt your mother's sister?"
"Oh, Lord, no! She was not really my aunt, at all. She was a cousin of my father's and when she took me in, I called her auntie. But they only took me because they wanted my help on the place, and I worked hard for them four years. They gave me no affection, nor even thanks for my services, and as I couldn't learn anything or make any sort of progress in that God-forsaken valley, I left them and shifted for myself."
"And made a great success of the shifting!" Patty's eyes glowed as she looked at her big handsome husband.