"Yes," the girl agreed, listlessly.
"I ain't never said much, but I've had my own troubles. I've tried to bear 'em patiently, but sometimes I ain't been patient—she's always made me feel so ugly."
Rosemary said nothing, but she felt a strange softening of her heart toward Aunt Matilda. "I don't know as you'll believe me," the older woman went on after a pause, "but I never knew nothin' about that money."
Pity for Aunt Matilda
"I know you didn't, Aunt Matilda. It's behind a loose brick in the chimney, in the attic, on the right-hand side. You have to stand on a chair to reach it. If you want any of it, go and help yourself. It's mine, and you're welcome to it, as far as I'm concerned."
"I don't know what I'd want," returned Matilda, gloomily. "I ain't never had nothin', and I've sort of got out of the habit. I did used to think that if it ever come my way, I'd like a white straw hat with red roses on it, but I'm too old for it now."
Tears of pity filled Rosemary's eyes and a lump rose in her throat. Aunt Matilda's deprivations had been as many as her own, and had extended over a much longer period. The way of escape was open for Rosemary, but the older woman must go on, hopelessly, until the end.
"It was sixteen years ago to-night," said Aunt Matilda, dreamily, "that the minister come to call."
"Was it?" asked Rosemary. She did not know what else to say.
"I thought maybe you'd remember it, but I guess you was too little. You was only nine, and you used to go to bed at half-past seven. It was five minutes of eight when he come."