She added further to her sins by picking a pink rose—­Miss Mehitable did not think flowers were made to pick—­and fastening it coquettishly in her brown hair.  Moreover, Araminta had put her hair up loosely, instead of in the neat, tight wad which Miss Mehitable had forced upon her the day she donned long skirts.  When Miss Mehitable beheld her transformed charge she would have broken her vow of silence had not the words mercifully failed.  Aunt Hitty’s vocabulary was limited, and she had no language in which to express her full opinion of the wayward one, so she assumed, instead, the pose of a suffering martyr.

The atmosphere at the table, during supper, was icy, even though it was the middle of June.  Thorpe noticed it and endeavoured to talk, but was not successful.  Miss Mehitable’s few words, which were invariably addressed to him, were so acrid in quality that they made him nervous.  The Reverend Austin Thorpe, innocent as he was of all intentional wrong, was made to feel like a criminal haled to the bar of justice.

But Araminta glowed and dimpled and smiled.  Her eyes danced with mischief, and the colour came and went upon her velvety cheeks.  She took pains to ask Aunt Hitty for the salt or the bread, and kept up a continuous flow of high-spirited talk.  Had it not been for Araminta, the situation would have become openly strained.

Afterward, she began to clear up the dishes as usual, but Miss Mehitable pushed her out of the room with a violence indicative of suppressed passion.  So, humming a hymn at an irreverent tempo, Araminta went out and sat down on the front porch, spreading down the best rug in the house that she might not soil her gown.  This, also, was forbidden.

When the dishes were washed and put away, Miss Mehitable came out, clad in her rustling black silk and her best bonnet.  “Miss Lee,” she said very coldly, “I am going out.”

“All right, Aunt Hitty” returned Araminta, cheerfully.  “As it happens, I’m not.”

Miss Mehitable repressed an exclamation of horror.  Seemingly, then, it had occurred to Araminta to go out in the evening—­alone!

Miss Mehitable’s feet moved swiftly away from the house.  She was going to the residence of the oldest and most orthodox deacon in Thorpe’s church, to ask for guidance in dealing with her wayward charge, but Araminta never dreamed of this.

Dusk came, the sweet, June dusk, starred with fireflies and clouded with great white moths.  The roses and mignonette and honeysuckle made the air delicately fragrant.  To the emancipated one, it was, indeed, a beautiful world.

Austin Thorpe came out, having found his room unbearably close.  As the near-sighted sometimes do, he saw more clearly at twilight than at other times.

“You here, child?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m here,” replied Araminta, happily.  “Sit down, won’t you?” Having taken the first step, she found the others comparatively easy, and was rejoicing in her new freedom.  She felt sure, too, that some day she should see Doctor Ralph once more and all would be made right between them.