“You won’t be poor by-and-by, when the old woman is dead. I hope she’ll be quicker than her cousin over it, for I can’t stand it much longer.”
“Isn’t she kind to you?”
“I suppose she means to be kind,” he said gratingly. “But she whines about me so, and is always wanting to kiss me”—and he made a harsh sound in his throat. “I can’t bear being kissed by an old woman.”
“It doesn’t matter when she is your aunt; it isn’t as if you were married to her. Wouldn’t it be awful to be married to an old woman?”
“Ugh! I think I should kill her, Caroline. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Let’s say all we’ll do when we get our money, Alfred dear,” the girl said in a wheedling voice. “I am glad of this rain, for we can’t go back till it leaves off a bit; let’s say all we’ll do when we get her money.”
“I believe you care more about her money than you do about me,” he said, in the grumbling voice Aunt Anne knew well.
“No, you don’t”—and she laughed a little; “you don’t think that a bit. I am fonder of you than the day I was married.”
“You were fond enough then,” he said almost tenderly; “I remember seeing you kiss your wedding-gown as you sat and stitched at it the night before.”
“I thought I’d never get it done in time.”