the vivid, lively memories that the tree with the pink flowers—­the almond tree—­in the corner of the gardens—­you could just see it from the nursery window—­called to her mind; she knew that she would be punished—­put in the corner, or even sent to bed.  She did not think these things out consecutively in her mind, but she knew that the dark room downstairs, the dark passages, the stillness and silence of it all frightened her, and that it was always out of these things that her aunts rose.

At night when she lay in bed with Rosie clasped tightly to her, she whispered endlessly about the gardens, the fountain, the barrel organs, the dogs, the other children in the Square—­she had names of her own for all these things—­and him, who belonged, of course, to the world outside....  Then her whisper would sink, and she would warn Rose about the rooms downstairs, the dining-room with the black chairs, the soft carpet, and the stuffed birds in glass cases—­for these things, too, she had names.  Here was the hand of death and destruction, the land of crooked stairs, sudden dark doors, mysterious bells and drippings of water—­out of all this her aunts came....

Unfortunately it was just at this moment that Miss Emily Braid decided that it was time to take her niece in hand.  “The child’s three, Violet, and very backward for her age.  Why, Mrs. Mancaster’s little girl, who’s just Angelina’s age, can talk fluently, and is beginning with her letters.  We don’t want Jim to be disappointed in the child when he comes home next year.”  It would be difficult to determine how much of this was true; Miss Emily was aggravated and, although she would never have confessed to so trivial a matter, the perpetual worship of Rose—­“the ugliest thing you ever saw”—­was irritating her.  The days followed, then, when Angelina was constantly in her aunt’s company, and to neither of them was this companionship pleasant.

“You must ask me questions, child.  How are you ever going to learn to talk properly if you don’t ask me questions?”

“Yes, auntie.”

“What’s that over there?”

“Twee.”

“Say tree, not twee.”

“Tree.”

“Now look at me.  Put that wretched doll down....  Now....  That’s right.  Now tell me what you’ve been doing this morning.”

“We had bweakfast—­nurse said I—­(long pause for breath)—­was dood girl; Auntie Vi’let came; I dwew with my pencil.”

“Say ‘drew,’ not ‘dwew.’”

“Drew.”

All this was very exhausting to Aunt Emily.  She was no nearer the child’s heart....  Angelina maintained an impenetrable reserve.  Old maids have much time amongst the unsatisfied and sterile monotonies of their life—­this is only true of some old maids; there are very delightful ones—­to devote to fancies and microscopic imitations.  It was astonishing now how largely in Miss Emily Braid’s life loomed the figure of Rose, the rag doll.