“Oh, Aunt Em, Aunt Em,” was all she could say.
Aunt Em stroked her hair gently.
“And then this unreasonable old aunt of yours,” she continued, “in order to crown her efforts, comes like a burglar into your room and makes you cry.”
Jeannie lifted her head and smiled at her through her tears.
“I am not crying unhappily,” she said; “and really, I am going to cry no more. I was crying only because things were so big, and the world was so fine, and I was so little. Is that reasonable, do you think? I rather believe it is. Oh, Aunt Em, if I could only tell you how I honor you!”
“I prefer that you should love me a little, Jeannie; that is quite enough. Spare me a little from Jack; there will be plenty left. Oh, my dear, I am so glad! I always liked that rude young man who painted your portrait. Weeks ago I knew he loved you, and I hoped—I hoped that you might love him.”
“How could I help it?” cried Jeannie. “And what have I done that this great gift should come to me?”
“You have grown up into an attractive young woman,” remarked Aunt Em, with a brisk return to her more usual attitude toward life, “and he into an attractive young man. That, to judge by the marriages one often sees, is more than enough.”
“Oh, I am happy, I am happy!” she cried. “What a day I have had: that girl turned the corner, the blessed rain fell, I talked with Jack in the garden, and I have talked to you.”