“I suppose you’ll not like candles very well, Emily, after being used to lamps at Wyther Grange,” said Aunt Laura with a little sigh. It was one of the bitter, small things in Laura Murray’s life that Elizabeth’s tyranny extended to candles.
Emily looked around her thoughtfully. One candle sputtered and bobbed at her as if greeting her. One, with a long wick, glowed and smouldered like a sulky little demon. One had a tiny flame—a sly, meditative candle. One swayed with a queer fiery grace in the draught from the door. One burned with a steady upright flame like a faithful soul.
“I—don’t know—Aunt Laura,” she answered slowly. “You can be—friends—with candles. I believe I like the candles best after all.”
Aunt Elizabeth, coming in from the cook-house, heard her. Something like pleasure gleamed in her gulf-blue eyes.
“You have some sense in you,” she said.
“That’s the second compliment she has paid me,” thought Emily.
“I think Emily has grown taller since she went to Wyther Grange,” Aunt Laura said, looking at her rather wistfully.
Aunt Elizabeth, snuffing the candles, glanced sharply over her glasses.
“I can’t see it,” she said. “Her dress is just the same length on her.”
“I’m sure she has,” persisted Laura.