The old lady did not conclude her sentence, but heaved a deep sigh, while unshed tears stood in her beautiful eyes.
“Auntie, why were you an old maid? I don’t understand it—it must have been no one’s fault but your own.”
“My own fault, Brownie! You don’t know—child, you don’t know,” cried Miss Mehetabel, sharply, while a deep, dry sob, that was almost a groan, burst from her lips.
Brownie was startled at her deep emotion. She had spoken lightly, and with no thought that she was probing an old wound.
She sprang up quickly, and seeing the fair old face above her almost convulsed with agony, she twined her arms about her neck, saying, remorsefully:
“Auntie, dear, forgive me! Have I touched some hidden spring of sorrow? I would not have wounded you so for the world.”
“Dear child, would you like to read a sad page in an old woman’s history?”
“No, dear auntie, do not talk of anything that gives you pain. Forgive me for speaking in a way that should recall anything to distress you,” said the young girl, sadly.
“You did not think to pain me, and I am glad now that the conversation has taken this turn, for I would like you to know something of what my past has been.”
“Let us wait until some other time—you are tired and ought to rest now,” pleaded Brownie, recoiling from a revelation she believed would be painful.