XXIV

Telling Aunt Hitty

Araminta woke with the birds.  As yet, it was dark, but from afar came the cheery voice of a robin, piping gaily of coming dawn.  When the first ray of light crept into her room, and every bird for miles around was swelling his tiny throat in song, it seemed to her that, until now, she had never truly lived.

The bird that rocked on the maple branch, outside her window, carolling with all his might, was no more free than she.  Love had rolled away the stone Aunt Hitty had set before the door of Araminta’s heart, and the imprisoned thing was trying its wings, as joyously as the birds themselves.

Every sense was exquisitely alive and thrilling.  Had she been older and known more of the world, Love would not have come to her so, but rather with a great peace, an unending trust.  But having waked as surely as the sleeping princess in the tower, she knew the uttermost ecstasy of it—­heard the sound of singing trumpets and saw the white light.

Her fear of Aunt Hitty had died, mysteriously and suddenly.  She appreciated now, as never before, all that had been done for her.  She saw, too, that many things had been done that were better left undone, but in her happy heart was no condemnation for anybody or anything.

Araminta dressed leisurely.  Usually, she hurried into her clothes and ran down-stairs to help Aunt Hitty, who was always ready for the day’s work before anybody else was awake but this morning she took her time.

She loved the coolness of the water on her face, she loved her white plump arms, her softly rounded throat, the velvety roses that blossomed on her cheeks, and the wavy brown masses of her hair, touched by the sun into tints of copper and gold.  For the first time in all her life, Araminta realised that she was beautiful.  She did not know that Love brings beauty with it, nor that the light in her eyes, like a new star, had not risen until last night.

She was seriously tempted to slide down the banister—­this also having been interdicted since her earliest remembrance—­but, being a grown woman, now, she compromised with herself by taking two stairs at a time in a light, skipping, perilous movement that landed her, safe but breathless, in the lower hall.

In the kitchen, wearing an aspect distinctly funereal, was Miss Mehitable.  Her brisk, active manner was gone and she moved slowly.  She did not once look up as Araminta came in.

“Good-morning, Aunt Hitty!” cried the girl, pirouetting around the bare floor.  “Isn’t this the beautifullest morning that ever was, and aren’t you glad you’re alive?”

“No,” returned Miss Mehitable, acidly; “I am not.”

“Aren’t you?” asked Araminta, casually, too happy to be deeply concerned about anybody else; “why, what’s wrong?”