“Oh, Lord!” she sighed to herself; “to think that child has got to go through the world just the way I have, when she don’t need to!”

Aunt Maria rose and got a handkerchief out of her bureau-drawer in her little bedroom.  She did not take the one in the pocket of her gown because that was her best one, and very fine.  Then she sat down again, pulled up her petticoat again, put the handkerchief before her poor face, and wept for herself and her niece, because of a conviction which was over her that for both the joy of life was to come only from the windows of others.

Chapter XXIII

Lily Merrill, going home across the yard through the storm, leaning on George Ramsey’s arm, gave a little, involuntary sob.  It was a sob half of the realization of slighted affection, half of shame.  It gave the little element of strangeness which was lacking to fascinate the young man.  He had a pitiful heart towards women, and at the sound of the little, stifled sob he pressed Lily’s arm more closely under his own.

“Don’t, Lily,” he said, softly.

Lily sobbed again; she almost leaned her head towards George’s shoulder.  She made a little, irresistible, nestling motion, like a child.

“I can’t help it,” she said, brokenly.  “She did look at me so.”

“Don’t mind her one bit, Lily,” said George.  He half laughed at the memory of Aunt Maria’s face, even while the tender tone sounded in his voice.  “Don’t mind that poor old maid.  Neither of us were to blame.  I suppose it did look as if we had taken possession of her premises, and she was astonished, that was all.  How funny she looked, poor thing, with her bonnet awry!”

“I know she must think I have done something dreadful,” sobbed Lily.

“Nonsense!” George said again, and his pressure of her arm tightened.  “I was just going when she came in, anyway.  There is nothing at all to be ashamed of, only—­” He hesitated.

“What?” asked Lily.

“Well, to tell you the truth, Lily,” he said then, “it does look to me as if Miss Edgham’s headache was only another way of telling me she did not wish to see me.”

“Oh, I guess not,” said Lily.

“For some reason or other she does not seem to like me,” George said, with rather a troubled voice; but he directly laughed.

“I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t like you,” Lily said.

They had reached Lily’s door, and the light from the sitting-room windows shone on her lovely face, past which the snow drifted like a white veil.

“Well, I think she doesn’t,” George said, carelessly, “but you are mighty good to say you see no reason why she shouldn’t.  You and I have always been good friends, haven’t we, Lily, ever since we went to school together?”

“Yes,” replied Lily, eagerly, although she did not like the word friends, which seemed to smite on the heart.  She lifted her face to the young man’s, and her lips pouted almost imperceptibly.  It could not have been said that she was inviting a kiss, but no man could have avoided kissing her.  George Ramsey kissed her as naturally as he breathed.  There seemed to be nothing else to do.  It was one of the inevitables of life.  Then Lily opened the door and slid into the house with a tremulous good-night.