Aunt Merce gave me a letter the moment I entered. "It is in Alice's hand; sit down and read it."
She took her handkerchief and a bit of flagroot from her pocket, to be ready for the sympathetic flow which she expected. But the letter was short. She had seen, it said, the announcement of mother's death in a newspaper at the time. She knew what a change it had made. We might be sure that we should never find our old level, however happy and forgetful we might grow. She bore us all in mind but sent no message, except to Aunt Merce; she must come to Rosville before summer was over. And could she assist me by taking Arthur for a while? Edward was a quiet, companionable lad, and Arthur would be safe with him at home and at school.
"I wish you would go, Aunt Merce."
"Yes, why not, Mercy?" asked father. "Would it be a good thing for
Arthur, Cassandra? You know what Surrey is for a boy."
"I know what Rosville was for a girl," I thought. It was an excellent plan for Arthur; but a feeling of repulsion at the idea of his going kept me silent.
"Is it a good idea?" he repeated.
"Yes, yes, father; send him by all means."
Aunt Merce sighed. "If he goes, I must go; I can be the receptacle for his griefs and trials for a while at least, and be a little useful that way. You know, Locke, I am but a poor creature."
"I was not aware of that fact, and am astonished to hear you say so, Mercy, when you know how far back I can remember. Mary shines all along those years, and you with her."
"Locke, you are the kindest man in the world."