“I knew you were up here, dear,” she said.  “I saw your light, and I saw your aunt’s sitting-room lamp go out.”

“Aunt Maria has only gone in Uncle Henry’s side.  Sit down, Lily,” said Maria, rising and returning Lily’s kiss, and placing a chair for her.

“Does she always put her lamp out when she goes in there?” asked Lily with innocent wonder.

“Yes,” replied Maria, rather curtly.  That was one of poor Aunt Maria’s petty economies, and she was sensitive with regard to it.  A certain starvation of character, which had resulted from the lack of material wealth, was evident in Aunt Maria, and her niece recognized the fact with exceeding pity, and a sense of wrong at the hands of Providence.

“How very funny,” said Lily.

Maria said nothing.  Lily had seated herself in the chair placed for her, and as usual had at once relapsed into a pose which would have done credit to an artist’s model, a pose of which she was innocently conscious.  She cast approving glances at the graceful folds of crimson cashmere which swept over her knees; she extended one little foot in its pointed shoe; she raised her arms with a gesture peculiar to her and placed them behind her head in such a fashion that she seemed to embrace herself.  Lily in crimson cashmere, which lent its warm glow to her tender cheeks, and even seemed to impart a rosy reflection to the gloss of her hair, was ravishing.  To-night, too, her face wore a new expression, one of triumphant tenderness, which caused her to look fairly luminous.

“It has been a lovely day, hasn’t it?” she said.

“Very pleasant,” said Maria.

“Did you know I went sleigh-riding this afternoon?”

“Did you?”

“Yes; George took me out.”

“That was nice,” said Maria.

“We went to Wayland.  The sleighing is lovely.”

“I thought it looked so,” said Maria.

“It is.  Say, Maria!”

“Well?”

“He said things to me this afternoon that sounded as if he did mean them.  He did, really.”

“Did he?”

“Do you want me to tell you?” asked Lily, eying Maria happily and yet a little timidly.

Maria straightened herself.  “If you want to know what I really think, Lily,” she said, “I think no girl should repeat anything a man says to her, if she does think he really means it.  I think it is between the two.  I think it should be held sacred.  I think the girl cheapens it by repeating it, and I don’t think it is fair to the man.  I don’t care to hear what Mr. Ramsey said, if you want the truth, Lily.”

Lily looked abashed.  “I dare say you are right, Maria,” she said, meekly.  “I won’t repeat anything he said if you don’t think I ought, and don’t want to hear it.”

“Is your new dress done?” asked Maria, abruptly.

“It is going to be finished this week,” said Lily.  “Do you think I am horrid, proposing to tell you what he said, Maria?”