Aunt Zélie sat alone in the wide hall that afternoon. The door was open, and outside the sunshine sifted through the vines as the wind kept them swinging softly to and fro; it was very still, and the ticking of the tall clock had a mournful sound.
No doubt it was the reaction after the excitement of the last few weeks that made her feel so weary and sad. Unhappy thoughts seemed determined to take possession of her mind—regrets for the past and fears for the future; she could not throw off the depression.
She thought of Carl's going, and how she would miss him. Would he become weaned from the old happy home life? Had she done all she might have done to help him to good, true manhood?
She asked herself these questions sadly; in her present mood it seemed to her she had failed of what she most wished to accomplish.
These dreary thoughts so engrossed her that Jim's voice, asking, "May I come in?" caused her to start.
"Certainly," she answered, "I am glad to see you, though I warn you I am not in a very good humor."
He did not appear alarmed. "I met Carl and he said I'd probably find you here. I want to tell you something."
"I am ready to listen," she said encouragingly, but Jim seemed to find it hard to begin, and looked at the floor in a hesitating way quite unusual.
Aunt Zélie watched him, thinking that something had come into that handsome young face of late which spoke hopefully for the future.
She was very much surprised at his words.