"It was your aunt's room, my child," said Mr. Herrick.
"But which aunt, father—Aunt Caroline or Aunt Rebecca?"
"Your aunt Mildred."
"But who was she? I never heard of her."
"You have never heard of your aunt Mildred? Is it possible?"
And then he told her of his beautiful younger sister who, years before, when she was but twenty, had left home to become a trained nurse in a hospital. Miss Herrick, who was devotedly fond of her, and who had expected her to make a brilliant marriage, had bitterly opposed this course.
"They were equally obstinate," said Mr. Herrick, "and neither one would give up. It was not that it was a disgraceful thing for Mildred to do—far from it. She had a longing to do some good in the world, and it suited her fancy to try to do it in that way. In a year or two she would probably have come back. But Caroline told her she must make her choice then and there—if she left her it was to be forever; and Mildred chose to go. Your aunt Caroline never forgave her for this, and her room has been closed and padlocked ever since, and her name is never mentioned. It is a sad story, Elizabeth, and I think your aunt has made a mistake; but it is not for me to judge her, I who have neglected my children all these years. We Herricks are all more or less peculiar."
Elizabeth told her father of the letters in the closed room, and from one of them Mr. Herrick learned that his sister had married an artist by the name of Brown. A second letter told that he had died within a year of their marriage, that her money was almost gone, and that she was now obliged to support herself.
Mr. Herrick reproached his sister Caroline for not having forwarded these letters to him, and although Miss Herrick tried to defend herself, she knew in her heart that she had done very wrong, and she longed to make amends to the Mildred whom she had once loved so dearly. But she gave no outward sign of this change of feeling.