“I would not, either,” responded Maria. She opened the stove door and thrust the letter in, and watched it burn.
“How your father ever came to marry that woman—” said Aunt Maria.
“There's no use talking about that now,” said Maria, arousing to defence of her father. “She was very pretty!”
“Pretty enough,” said Aunt Maria, “and I miss my guess if she didn't do most of the courting. Well, as you say, there is no use talking it over now. What's done is done.”
Aunt Maria watched Maria's pitiful young face with covert glances. Maria was finishing a blouse which she had expected to wear on her journey. She continued her work with resolution, but every line on her face took a downward curve.
“You don't need to hurry so on that waist now,” said Aunt Maria.
“I want the waist, anyway,” replied her niece. “I may as well get it done.”
“You will have to send the Christmas presents,” said Aunt Maria. “I don't very well see how you can pack some of them.”
“I guess I can manage,” said Maria.
The next day her week of vacation began. She packed the gifts which she had bought for her father and Evelyn and Ida, and took them to the express office. The day after that she received the remembrances of which Ida spoke. They were very pretty. Aunt Maria thought them extravagant. Ida had sent her a tiny chatelaine watch, and her father a ring set with a little diamond. Maria knew perfectly well how her father's heart ached when he sent the ring. She never for one moment doubted him. She wrote him a most loving letter, and even a deceptive letter, because of her affection. She repeated what Ida had written, that it was a long journey, and expensive, and she did not think it best for her to go home, although she had longed to do so.