For once in her circumspect life Aunt Hannah was guilty of an interruption.
“Pardon me, William, she is not a child. She is a woman now, and she has a woman's problems to meet.”
“Well, then, why don't you help her meet them?” retorted William, still with a whimsical smile.
But Aunt Hannah did not smile. For a minute she did not speak; then, with her eyes studiously averted, she said:
“William, the first four years of my married life were—were spoiled by an outsider in our home. I don't mean to spoil Billy's.”
William relaxed visibly. The smile fled from his face.
“Why—Aunt—Hannah!” he exclaimed.
The little old lady turned with a weary sigh.
“Yes, I know. You are shocked, of course. I shouldn't have told you. Still, it is all past long ago, and—I wanted to make you understand why I can't come. He was my husband's eldest brother—a bachelor. He was good and kind, and meant well, I suppose; but—he interfered with everything. I was young, and probably headstrong. At all events, there was constant friction. He went away once and stayed two whole months. I shall never forget the utter freedom and happiness of those months for us, with the whole house to ourselves. No, William, I can't come.” She rose abruptly and turned toward the door. Her eyes were wistful, and her face was still drawn with suffering; but her whole frail little self quivered plainly with high resolve. “John has Peggy outside. I must go.”
“But—but, Aunt Hannah,” began William, helplessly.