“Oh, well, he doesn’t notice where he’s going. He’s always thinking of operations and that sort of thing. Good-morning, aunt dear.”
“Good-morning, Isabel, my child—morning, Laura.”
“Aren’t you well, dear? You look so serious.”
“Yes, Laura, I look serious. It’s a sad world.”
The girls exchanged glances, and with melancholy mien the old lady rang the bell for breakfast, and then dropped into her seat with a weary sigh.
“No letters, Laura?”
“No, aunt dear. There’s a lovely rose instead.”
“Thank you, Laura. Dear, dear! no one writes to me now. I don’t know why one should go on living when one grows old.”
“Because Fred and I want you, dear,” cried Laura, merrily, “and Bel too. Put two more spoonfuls in the pot, aunt dear. A hot cup of tea will do you good.”
“Nothing will ever do me good again,” sighed the old lady, shaking her head mournfully.