For several weeks, she was more thoughtful than ever before. She could not rid herself of the bitter reflections that were forced upon her; and sometimes confessed to herself that truth and frankness were more to be relied upon than deceit and art.
"I have a great mind—" she exclaimed, one day after there had been a long pause in which neither the young lady nor her aunt felt inclined for conversation, "I have a great mind to set up for a saint, end marry a minister."
The old lady dropped her crocheting, and stared at her niece in amazement.
"It makes me sick of society every time I think of Mr. Coleman," remarked Alice, with a faint smile at her aunt's continued gaze. "I would follow Ellen's example and discard fibbing, or lying, as she bluntly calls it; only truth-telling is often so inconvenient."
"I think Ellen's rule would be a profitable one for all of us," returned Miss Saunders with a heavy sigh. "I mean if it were not carried to an extreme."
"Just so, aunty. Now you are at one extreme and Nelly at the other, while I maintain the happy medium."
"Alice Saunders! What are you talking about?" cried the old lady, growing very white about the mouth. "I insist that you explain yourself immediately."
"Certainly, aunt."
She turned away to conceal a smile, a bitter, scornful smile, and then began suddenly,—
"I can but just remember mother's death. The room had been dark; but all at once nurse fastened back the heavy damask curtains, and a flood of golden light from the setting sun poured into the room, making everything beautiful. I remember just how it shone on mother's face, giving it an unearthly beauty; and how eagerly she gazed through the window at the gorgeous spectacle.