“Oh, Auntie dear,” cried the affectionate girl, jumping up from her place to go behind the elder lady’s chair, and place her arms about her neck.
“Isabel, I beg you will not do that,” said Aunt Anne. “It is not prompted by genuine affection.”
“Oh, yes, Auntie, it’s quite true,” said Isabel.
“It cannot be, my dear; but, as I going to say, as I have found it necessary to reprove you, I must remind you that your conduct is not what it should be to your friends Saxa and Dana.”
“But, Aunt dear, they went off to Lucerne without a word to me, and you know that I never felt that they were great friends of mine, in spite of all. They always looked down upon me because I did not care for horses, and dogs, and grooms.”
“I am not going to say any more about those two poor girls who have been expatriated by your brothers’ base conduct.”
“Auntie! It was not base if the boys did not love them.”
“They did love them, and they do love them, my dear,” said Aunt Anne sternly. “All this is but a passing cloud, spread by that wicked woman, which blinds them. But it was not about that I wished to speak to you.”
“What, then, Auntie?” said Isabel, looking at her suspiciously, and thinking of a visit she had paid a few days before to a certain invalid vicar who had lain back in his chair to proudly read aloud portions of a letter he had received by the last mail.
“Sir Cheltnam Burwood was here yesterday. Now, it is of no use for you to pretend that you did not know he was here, for I am certain that I saw you stealing off down the laurel walk, on the pretence of going to visit some of the poor, and I dare say, if the truth were known, you went to the vicarage.”