I wound up the last spool, and turned away to the window. There was a confused, dreary sky of scurrying clouds, and a cold wind was bruising the apple-buds. I hate a cold wind in May. It made me choke a little, thinking how I should sit and listen to it after she was gone,—of the old, blank, comfortless days that must come and go,—of what she had brought, and what she would take away. I was a bit faint, I think, for a minute. I had not really thought the prospect through, before.
“Mary,” she said, “what’s the matter? Come here.”
I went over, and she drew me into her lap, and I put my arms about her neck.
“I can not bear it,” said I, “and that is the matter.”
She smiled, but her smile faded when she looked at me.
And then I told her, sobbing, how it was; that I could not go into my future alone,—I could not do it! that she did not know how weak I was,—and reckless,—and wicked; that she did not know what she had been to me. I begged her not to leave me. I begged her to stay and help me bear my life.
“My dear! you are as bad as Faith when I put her to bed alone.”
“But,” I said, “when Faith cries, you go to her, you know.”
“Are you quite in earnest, Mary?” she asked, after a pause. “You don’t know very much about me, after all, and there is the child. It is always an experiment, bringing two families into lifelong relations under one roof. If I could think it best, you might repent your bargain.”
“I am not ‘a family,’” I said, feebly trying to laugh. “Aunt Winifred, if you and Faith only will make this your home, I can never thank you, never. I shall be entertaining my good angels, and that is the whole of it.”