And William yawned dismally.
“Good-night, dear, it is better,” said Aunt Dinah; “but I don’t know, it strikes me that you and Vi are not as friendly together as you used to be, and I think it is a pity.”
“Not so friendly,” exclaimed William. “Ha, ha! That did not strike me; but I assure you there’s no change, at least that I know of—none on my part, I’m sure. I suppose it’s just that our heads are full of other things; we have each got our business to think of—don’t you see?—and hers, you know, is very serious,” and William Maubray laughed again a little bitterly.
“Well, she is a dear little creature, an affectionate little soul. I’ve always found her quite the same,” said Aunt Dinah.
“I’m sure she is—I dare say—I don’t see why she shouldn’t, that is, as affectionate as other young ladies. You know it isn’t I who say she’s changed.”
“I did not say she’s changed more than you. I think you don’t seem so kindly as you used, and more disposed to be disagreeable; and I think, considering you have been so long together, and are so soon to part, and life is so uncertain, I think it a pity; and you can’t see even how pretty she is looking.”
“I must have been thinking of something else, for she is in particularly good looks;” and he added, quite like himself, “Yes, indeed, I think she improves every time I see her, but that may be the old partiality, you know. Good-night, Aunt Dinah.”
Aunt Dinah took both his hands to hers, and kissed him.
“Good-night, my dear William—my dear boy. You will never know, dear William, all the pain you have cost me. Pray, my dear child, for a reasonable spirit, and that you may have power to conquer the demon of pride—the besetting sin of youth, and, my dear William, you must reconsider the question of ordination, and pray for light. God bless you, and don’t forget to put out your candle. There”—another kiss—“Good-night.”