“You will be glad to get rid of me, all of you!” she said, dropping for the first and last time I can recollect into the retort direct; “and I can't say I shall be very sorry to go myself. It hasn't been my idea of life.”
Poor old lady! That was only a couple of weeks before the end. I do not suppose she guessed it was so certain or perhaps she might have been more sentimental.
“Don't be foolish,” said my mother, “you're not going to die!”
“What's the use of talking like an idiot,” retorted my aunt, “I've got to do it some time. Why not now, when everything's all ready for it. It isn't as if I was enjoying myself.”
“I am sure we do all we can for you,” said my mother. “I know you do,” replied my aunt. “I'm a burden to you. I always have been.”
“Not a burden,” corrected my mother.
“What does the woman call it then,” snapped back my aunt. “Does she reckon I've been a sunbeam in the house? I've been a trial to everybody. That's what I was born for; it's my metier.”
My mother put her arms about the poor old soul and kissed her. “We should miss you very much,” she said.
“I'm sure I hope they all will!” answered my aunt. “It's the only thing I've got to leave 'em, worth having.”
My mother laughed.