Aunt Emma grew all at once as white as death.
“This is wonderful!” she cried in an agitated voice. “This is wonderful—wonderful! If you can remember that, my child, you can remember anything.”
“I DON’T remember it auntie,” I answered, not liking to deceive her. “To tell you the truth, I simply guessed at it. But when and why was I at Torquay? Please tell me. And did I go to Berry Pomeroy?” For I stuck to my point, and meant to get it out of her.
Aunt Emma gazed at me fixedly.
“You went to Torquay, dear,” she said in a very slow voice, “in the spring of the same year your poor father was killed: that’s more than four years ago. The Willie Moores live at Torquay, and several more of your cousins. You went to stop with Willie’s wife, and you stayed five weeks. I don’t know whether you ever went over to Berry Pomeroy. You may have, and you mayn’t: it’s within an easy driving distance. Minnie Moore has often written to ask me whether you could go there again; Minnie was always fond of you, and thinks you’d remember her: but I’ve been afraid to allow you, for fear it should recall sad scenes. She’s about your own age, Minnie is; and she’s a daughter of Willie Moore, who’s my own first cousin, and of course your dear mother’s.”
I never hesitated a moment. I was strung up too tightly by that time.
“Auntie dear,” I said quietly, “I go to-morrow to Torquay. I must know all now. I must hunt up these people.”
Auntie knew from my tone it was no use trying to stand in my way any longer.
“Very well, dear,” she said resignedly. “I don’t believe it’s good for you: but you must do as you like. You have your father’s will, Una. You were always headstrong.”