“My dear,” she said, with the twilight impulse of nearness,—­“I am an old woman.  Aren’t you pushing something away from you, dear?”

“Ow!” said Barbara, as if Miss Craydocke had pinched her.  And poor Miss Craydocke could only walk away again.

When it came to Aunt Roderick, though, it was too much.  Aunt Roderick came over a good deal now.  She had quite taken us into unqualified approval again, since we had got the house.  She approved herself also.  As if it was she who had died and left us something, and looked back upon it now with satisfaction.  At least, as if she had been the September Gale, and had taken care of that paper for us.

Aunt Roderick has very good practical eyes; but no sentiment whatever.  “It seems to me, Barbara, that you are throwing away your opportunities,” she said, plainly.

Barbara looked up with a face of bold unconsciousness.  She was brought to bay, now; Aunt Roderick could exasperate her, but she could not touch the nerve, as dear Miss Craydocke could.

“I always am throwing them away,” said Barbara.  “It’s my fashion.  I never could save corners.  I always put my pattern right into the middle of my piece, and the other half never comes out, you see.  What have I done, now?  Or what do you think I might do, just at present?”

“I think you might save yourself from being sorry by and by,” said Aunt Roderick.

“I’m ever so much obliged to you,” said Barbara, collectedly.  “Just as much as if I could understand.  But perhaps there’ll be some light given.  I’ll turn it over in my mind.  In the mean while, Aunt Roderick, I just begin to see one very queer thing in the world.  You’ve lived longer than I have; I wish you could explain it.  There are some things that everybody is very delicate about, and there are some that they take right hold of.  People might have pocket-perplexities for years and years, and no created being would dare to hint or ask a question; but the minute it is a case of heart or soul,—­or they think it is,—­they ‘rush right in where angels fear to tread.’  What do you suppose makes the difference?”

After that, we all let her alone, behave as she might.  We saw that there could be no meddling without marring.  She had been too conscious of us all, before anybody spoke.  We could only hope there was no real mischief done, already.

“It’s all of them, every one!” she repeated, half hysterically, that day, after her shell had exploded, and Aunt Roderick had retreated, really with great forbearance.  “Miss Craydocke began, and I had to scream at her; even Sin Scherman made a little moral speech about her own wild ways, and set that baby crowing over me!  And once Aunt Trixie ‘vummed’ at me.  And I’m sure I ain’t doing a single thing!” She whimpered and laughed, like a little naughty boy, called to account for mischief, and pretending surprised innocence, yet secretly at once enjoying and repenting his own badness; and so we had to let her alone.