“But we haven’t!” cried the girl. “Mother meant all right, I know, but she didn’t think. And I’ve been--horrid. Aunt Jane tried to show her interest in my wedding plans, but I only laughed at her and said she wouldn’t understand. We’ve pushed her aside, always,--we’ve never made her one of us; and--we’ve always made her feel her dependence.”
“But you’ll do differently now, dear,--now that you understand.”
Again the girl shook her head.
“We can’t,” she moaned. “It’s too late. I had a letter from mother last night. Aunt Jane’s sick--awfully sick. Mother said I might expect to--to hear of the end any day.”
“But there’s some time left--a little!”--his voice broke and choked into silence. Suddenly he made a quick movement, and the car beneath them leaped forward like a charger that feels the prick of the spur.
The girl gave a frightened cry, then a tremulous little sob of joy. The man had cried in her ear, in response to her questioning eyes:
“We’re--going--to--Aunt Jane!”
And to them both, at the moment, there seemed to be waiting at the end of the road a little bent old woman, into whose wistful eyes they were to bring the light of joy and peace.
A Couple of Capitalists
On the top of the hill stood the big brick house--a mansion, compared to the other houses of the New England village. At the foot of the hill nestled the tiny brown farmhouse, half buried in lilacs, climbing roses, and hollyhocks.