"Aunt Patty's name is also Henrietta," replied Mr. Bradford, "and when she was young, she was generally called so."
"And Henry was this Henry, our own papa," said Fred, laying his hand on his father's shoulder. "And Aleck was Uncle Alexander, who died so long ago, before any of us were born. I guessed it at the beginning."
"Well, now," said Mr. Bradford, "if Aunt Patty comes to us by and by, and is not always as gentle as she might be, will my little children remember how much she has had to try her, and how much there is in her which is really good and unselfish?"
The boys promised readily enough, and Bessie said doubtfully that she would try, but when papa turned to Maggie, she looked as shy and frightened as if Aunt Patty herself had asked the question.
"What is my rosebud afraid of?" said Mr. Bradford.
"Papa," said Maggie, "I'm so sorry for that pretty lady, but I can't be sorry for Aunt Patty,—and oh, papa, I—I—do wish—Aunt Patty wasn't"—and poor Maggie broke down in a desperate fit of crying.
Mr. Bradford feared that his story had been almost in vain so far as his little girls were concerned, and indeed it was so. They could not make the pretty lady in the picture, the poor young wife whose husband and father had been drowned before her very eyes, or the brave, generous woman who had saved little Aleck, one and the same with the dreaded Aunt Patty. The mischief which words had done words could not so easily undo.
