Aunt Frances stayed until after the New Year. But before she went she sounded Aunt Isabelle.
"Has Mary said anything to you about Porter Bigelow?"
"About Porter?"
"Yes," impatiently, "about marrying him. Anybody can see that he's dead in love with her, Isabelle."
"I don't think Mary wants to marry anybody. She's an independent little creature. She should have been the boy, Frances."
"I wish to heaven she had," Aunt Frances' tone was fervent. "I can't see any future for Barry, unless he marries Leila. If he were not so irresponsible, I might do something for him. But Barry is such a will-o'-the-wisp."
Aunt Isabelle went on with her mending, and Aunt Frances again pounced upon her.
"And it isn't just that he is irresponsible. He's—— Did you notice on Christmas Day, Isabelle—that after dinner he wasn't himself?"
Aunt Isabelle had noticed. And it was not the first time. Her quick eyes had seen things which Mary had thought were hidden. She had not needed ears to tell the secret which was being kept from her in that house.
Yet her sense of loyalty sealed her lips. She would not tell Frances anything. They were dear children.