“But you don’t care if I go to them at other girls’ houses, do you?” asked Hinpoha, the fear gripping her that she was to be denied the consolation of these weekly gatherings with the Winnebagos.

“I don’t want you to have anything to do with that Camp Fire business,” said Aunt Phoebe in a tone of finality, and Hinpoha left the room, her heart swelling with bitterness.  She was too wise to argue the point with Aunt Phoebe, and resolved to depend on Nyoda to show her the way.  She dried her tears and went down to the living room and began to play softly on the piano.  It had been her mother’s piano, the wedding gift of her father, and it seemed that her mother’s spirit hovered over it.  It was the first time she had touched the keys since that awful Wednesday when the world had been turned into chaos; she had had no heart to play, but to-day the sound of the music comforted her and her bitter resentment against her aunt lost some of its sting.  She played on, lost in memories, when suddenly the sharp voice of her aunt brought her back to earth.  “What does this mean?” cried Aunt Phoebe, “playing on the piano when your father and mother have just died!  I never heard of such a thing!  Come away immediately and don’t open that piano again until our period of mourning is over.”  She closed the piano and locked it, putting the key into her bag.

Under Aunt Phoebe’s management the house soon lost its look of inviting friendliness.  The blinds were always kept drawn, so that even on the brightest days the rooms had a gloomy appearance.  No more cheerful wood fires crackled and glowed in the grate.  They made ashes on the rugs and were extravagant, as the house was heated by steam.  The bookcases were locked and Hinpoha was forbidden to read fiction, as this was not proper when one was in mourning.  “You will become acquainted with much pleasant literature reading to me while I crochet,” she said when Hinpoha rose in revolt at this edict.  The “pleasant literature” which Aunt Phoebe was just then perusing was a History of the Presbyterian Church in eleven volumes, which bored Hinpoha so it nearly gagged her.

Besides, Aunt Phoebe constantly found fault with Hinpoha’s manner of reading.  It was either too loud or not loud enough; either too fast or too slow, but it was never right.  That reading aloud was the last straw to Hinpoha.  After sitting still a whole afternoon getting her school lessons, she longed to move about after supper, but then Aunt Phoebe expected her to sit still the entire evening and entertain her with the activities of the Early Presbytery.  After nearly a week of this deadly dullness Hinpoha was ready to fly.  And yet Aunt Phoebe was not conscious that there was anything wrong in the way she was treating Hinpoha.  She cared for her in her frozen way.  She was merely trying to bring her up in the way she herself had been brought up by a maiden aunt, not taking into account that this was another day and age.  In her time it was considered the proper thing to shut down on all lightheartedness after a death in the family, and she was adhering steadfastly to the old principles.  She was yet to learn that she could not force obsolete customs upon a girl who had lived for sixteen years in the sunlight of modern ideas.