“No! No! Of course I don't think so. If I were you I should fight to the last ditch. I would never give in—never! Oh, Auntie, I feel wicked and mean to leave you now, with all this new trouble; but I must—I must. I can't stay here—I—”
“There, there, Emily, dear! I understand, I guess. I know how hard it is for you. And I thought so much of him, too. I thought he was such a fine young—”
“Aunt Thankful, are you daring to hint that I—I—care in the least for that—him? How dare you insinuate such a thing to me? I—I despise him!”
“Yes, yes,” hastily. “Course you do, course you do. Well, we won't worry about that, any of it. Mr. Daniels says there's nothin' to worry about anyhow, and I'll tell him he can do what he thinks ought to be done when it's necessary. Now let's finish up that packin' of yours, dearie.”
Thankful did not trust herself to accompany her cousin to Wellmouth Centre. She was finding it hard enough to face the coming separation with outward cheerfulness, and the long ride to the railway station she found to be too great a strain. So she made the lameness of George Washington's off fore leg an excuse for keeping that personage in the stable, and it was in Winnie S.'s depot-wagon that Emily journeyed to the Centre.
They said good-by at the front gate. Emily, too, was trying to appear cheerful, and the parting was hurried.
“Good-by, Auntie,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Write often and I will answer, I promise you. I know you'll be lonely after I've gone, but I have a plan—a secret. If I can carry it through you won't be SO lonely, I'm pretty sure. And don't worry, will you? The mortgage is all right and as for the other thing—well, that will be all right, too. You won't worry, will you?”
“No, no; I'll be too busy to worry. And you'll come down for the Christmas vacation? You will, won't you?”
“I'll try . . . I mean I will if I can arrange it. Good-by, dear.”
The depot-wagon rattled out of the yard. Winnie S. pulled up at the gate to shout a bit of news.