“And you think it, too!” cried Aunt Marguerite passionately. “I will see him.”
“Go up to your room and wait a bit. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
“But George will—”
“Say things to you that will be rather startling to your vain old brain, Madge, if you force yourself upon him, and I’ll take care that you do not.”
“And this is my brother!” cried Aunt Marguerite indignantly.
“Uncle Luke is right,” said Madelaine quietly, speaking of him as in the old girlish days. “If I might advise you, Miss Vine.”
“Miss Margue—No, no,” cried the old lady, hastily. “Miss Vine; yes, Miss Vine. You will help me, my child. I want my brother to know that it is not my fault.”
The old contemptuous manner was gone, and she caught Madelaine’s arm and pressed it spasmodically with her bony fingers.
“You could not go to Mr Vine at a worse time,” said Madelaine. “He is suffering acutely.”
“But if you come with me,” whispered Aunt Marguerite. “Oh, my child, I have been very, very hard to you, but you will not turn and trample on me now I am down.”