Doctor Ralph was out of sight, now, and she could never watch for him any more.  He had gone away forever, and she had broken his heart.  For the moment, Araminta straightened herself proudly, for she had been taught that it did not matter whether one’s heart broke or not—­one must always do what was right.  And Aunt Hitty knew what was right.

Suddenly, she sank on her knees beside her bed, burying her face in the pillow, for her heart was breaking, too.  “Oh, Lord,” she prayed, sobbing wildly, “keep me from the contamination of marriage, for Thy sake.  Amen.”

The door opened silently, a soft, slow step came near.  The pillow was drawn away and a cool hand was laid upon Araminta’s burning cheek.  “Child,” said Miss Evelina, “what is wrong?”

Araminta had not meant to tell, but she did.  She sobbed out, in disjointed fragments, all the sorry tale.  Wisely, Miss Evelina waited until the storm had spent itself, secretly wishing that she, too, might know the relief of tears.

“I knew,” said Miss Evelina, her cool, quiet hand still upon Araminta’s face.  “Doctor Ralph told me before he went home.”

“Oh,” cried Araminta, “does he hate me?”

“Hate you?” repeated Miss Evelina.  “Dear child, no.  He loves you.  Would you believe me, Araminta, if I told you that it was not wrong to be married—­that there was no reason in the world why you should not marry the man who loves you?”

“Not wrong!” exclaimed Araminta, incredulously.  “Aunt Hitty says it is.  My mother was married!”

“Yes,” said Miss Evelina, “and so was mine.  Aunt Hitty’s mother was married, too.”

“Are you sure?” demanded Araminta.  “She never told me so.  If her mother was married, why didn’t she tell me?”

“I don’t know, dear,” returned Miss Evelina, truthfully.  “Mehitable’s ways are strange.”  Had she been asked to choose, at the moment, between Araminta’s dense ignorance and all of her own knowledge, embracing, as it did, a world of pain, she would have chosen gladly, the fuller life.

The door-bell below rang loudly, defiantly.  It was the kind of a ring which might impel the dead to answer it.  Miss Evelina fairly ran downstairs.

Outside stood Miss Mehitable.  Unwillingly, in her wake, had come the Reverend Austin Thorpe.  Under Miss Mehitable’s capable and constant direction, he had made a stretcher out of the clothes poles and a sheet.  He was jaded in spirit beyond all words to express, but he had come, as Roman captives came, chained to the chariot wheels of the conqueror.

“Me and the minister,” announced Miss Mehitable, imperiously, “have come to take Minty home!”

XIX

In the Shadow of the Cypress

The house seemed lonely without Araminta.  Miss Evelina missed the child more than she had supposed she could ever miss any one.  She had grown to love her, and, too, she missed the work.