"That is your cousin Fleda," said his mother.
"No--aunt Fleda," said the person thus introduced--"don't put me off into cousindom, Marion. I am uncle Hugh's sister--and so I am your aunt Fleda. Who are you?"
"Rolf Rossitur Schwiden."
Alas how wide are the ramifications of evil! How was what might have been very pure pleasure utterly poisoned and turned into bitterness. It went through Fleda's heart with a keen pang when she heard that name and looked on the very fair brow that owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain that had come upon both. She dared look at nobody but the child. He already understood the melting eyes that were making acquaintance with his, and half felt the pain that gave so much tenderness to her kiss, and looked at her with a grave face of awakening wonder and sympathy. Fleda was glad to have business to call her into the kitchen.
"Who is it?" was Barby's immediate question.
"Aunt Lucy's daughter."
"She don't look much like her!" said Barby intelligently.
"They will want something to eat, Barby."
"I'll put the kettle on. It'll boil directly. I'll go in there and fix up the fire."
A word or two more, and then Fleda ran up to speak to her aunt and Hugh.