The next morning the good old lady called me into her room a little while before the hour of school, and, bidding me sit down by her side, said affectionately, but seriously,
"My child, do you love the Doctor?"
Though not naturally mirthful, I could scarce refrain from laughing in the old lady's face. Respect forbade, and I answered, with all the seriousness I could command,
"Dear Aunty, because you and Lizzy wished it, I have tried hard to do so; but I do not love him, and I am convinced I never can."
The good woman looked relieved, and said, "I am glad it is so; you are far away from home and friends, and I should be sorry to have you in trouble while with us. Come to me at all times with your sorrows, and I will try and be a mother to you."
The smiles were now exchanged for tears. What in the world does any one wish to cry for, when they are grateful? But some seem to have that unfortunate propensity.
"I was only to add," said the old lady, "that the Doctor loves Lizzy; and I feared," she said, "it might make one heart sad. We fancied you felt more interest in the Doctor than you are willing to acknowledge."
"I now give you a solemn promise," I said, and it was sealed with a kiss, "that I will always speak the truth to yourself."
This conversation only gave me new cause for regret. I could not see my dear Lizzy married to the Doctor, so long as I was unable to shake off my own dislike to him, and my own mouth was fettered by the suspicions concerning myself. For two days I was pondering in my own mind what could be done; and learning that Mr. Warner would permit no engagement to take place at present, concluded that time and patience would bring all right.
Thus I mused, with my book open, but my mind wandering, when Lizzy burst into the room.