Miss Mehitable was not among those rare souls who are seldom lonely.  Her nature demanded continuous conversation, the subject alone being unimportant.  Every thought that came into her mind was destined for a normal outlet in speech.  She had no mental reservoir.

Araminta was going away—­to be married.  In spite of her trouble, Miss Mehitable noted the taint of heredity.  “It’s in her blood,” she murmured, “and maybe Minty ain’t so much to blame.”

In this crisis, however, Miss Mehitable had the valiant support of her conscience.  She had never allowed the child to play with boys—­in fact, she had not had any playmates at all.  As soon as Araminta was old enough to understand, she was taught that boys and men—­indeed all human things that wore trousers, long or short—­were rank poison, and were to be steadfastly avoided if a woman desired peace of mind.  Miss Mehitable frequently said that she had everything a husband could have given her except a lot of trouble.

Daily, almost hourly, the wisdom of single blessedness had been impressed upon Araminta.  Miss Mehitable neglected no illustration calculated to bring the lesson home.  She had even taught her that her own mother was an outcast and had brought disgrace upon her family by marrying; she had held aloft her maiden standard and literally compelled Araminta to enlist.

Now, all her work had gone for naught.  Nature had triumphantly reasserted itself, and Araminta had fallen in love.  The years stretched before Miss Mehitable in a vast and gloomy vista illumined by no light.  No soft step upon the stair, no sunny face at her table, no sweet, girlish laugh, no long companionable afternoons with patchwork, while she talked and Araminta listened.  At the thought, her stern mouth quivered, ever so slightly, and, all at once, she found the relief of tears.

An hour or so afterward, she went up to the attic, walking with a stealthy, cat-like tread, though there was no one in the house to hear.  In a corner, far back under the eaves, three trunks were piled, one on top of the other.  Miss Hitty lifted off the two top trunks without apparent effort, for her arms were strong, and drew the lowest one out into the path of sunlight that lay upon the floor, maple branches swaying across it in silhouette.

In another corner of the attic, up among the rafters, was a box apparently filled with old newspapers.  Miss Hitty reached down among the newspapers with accustomed fingers and drew out a crumpled wad, tightly wedged into one corner of the box.

She listened carefully at the door, but there was no step in the house.  She was absolutely alone.  None the less, she bolted the door of the attic before she picked the crumpled paper apart, and took out the key of the trunk.

The old lock opened readily, and from the trunk came the musty odour of long-dead lavender and rosemary, lemon verbena and rose geranium.  On top was Barbara Lee’s wedding gown.  Miss Hitty always handled it with reverence not unmixed with awe, never having had a wedding gown herself.