Aunt Martha shook her head slowly. “Why should it be?” said she. “Great sin must be greatly punished. To die, while I live; to be buried alive close to my nearest and dearest; to know that my sister thinks of me as dead, and is glad that I am so—”
“Stop, Aunt Martha, stop!” cried Amy, with the same firm tone in which, upon a previous visit, in this room, she had dismissed the insolent shopman, “how can you say such things?” and she stood radiant before her aunt, while Lawrence Newt looked on.
“Amy, dear, you can not understand. Sons and daughters of evil, when we see that we have sinned, we must be brave enough to assist in our own punishment. God’s mercy enables me tranquilly to suffer the penalty which his justice awards me. My path is very plain. Please God, I shall walk in it.”
She said it very slowly, and solemnly, and sadly. Whatever her offense was, she had invested her situation with the dignity of a religious duty. It was clear that her idea of obedience to God was to do precisely what she was doing. And this was so deeply impressed upon Amy Waring’s mind that she was perplexed how to act. She knew that if her aunt suspected in her any intention of revealing the secret of her abode, she would disappear at once, and elude all search. And to betray it while it was unreservedly confided to her was impossible for Amy, even if she had not solemnly promised not to do so.
Observing that Amy meant to say nothing, Lawrence Newt turned to Aunt Martha.
“I will not quarrel with what you say, but I want you to grant me a request.”
Aunt Martha bowed, as if waiting to see if she could grant it.
“If it is not unreasonable, will you grant it?”
“I will,” said she.
“Well, now please, I want you to go next Sunday and hear a man preach whom I am very fond of hearing, and who has been of the greatest service to me.”