“
Present company excepted,” remarked Lynn, “this village is full of fossils.”
“At what age does one get to be a ‘fossil,’” asked Aunt Peace, her eyes twinkling. “Seventy-five?”
“That isn’t fair,” Lynn answered, resentfully. “You’re younger than any of us, Aunt Peace,—you’re seventy-five years young.”
“So I am,” she responded, good humouredly. She was upon excellent terms with this tall, straight young fellow who had brought new life into her household. A March wind, suddenly sweeping through her rooms, would have had much the same effect.
“Am I a fossil?” asked Margaret, who had overheard the conversation.
“You’re nothing but a kid, mother. You’ve never grown up. I can do what I please with you.” He picked her up, bodily, and carried her, flushed and protesting, to her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. “Aunt Peace, is there any place in the house where you might care to go?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll stay where I am, if I may. I’m very comfortable.”
Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy tread which resounded upon the polished floor. Iris happened to be passing the door and looked in, anxiously, for signs of damage.
“Iris,” laughed Miss Field, “what a little old maid you are! You remind me of that story we read together.”