Lily talked about her bridal wardrobe all the way until they reached the Ramsey house; then she glanced up at the windows and bowed, dimpling and blushing.  “That’s his mother,” she said to Maria.  “I wonder if George has told her.”

“I should think he must have,” said Maria.

“I am so glad you think she will like me.  I wonder what room we shall have, and whether there will be new furniture.  I don’t know how the up-stairs rooms are furnished, do you?”

“No, how should I?  I was never up-stairs in the house in my life,” said Maria.  Again she gazed away from Lily at the snow-covered hills.  Her face wore an expression of forced patience.  It really seemed to her as if she were stung by a swarm of platitudes like bees.

Lily kissed her at her door.  “I should ask if I couldn’t come over this evening, and sit up in your room and talk it over,” said she, “but I suppose he will be likely to come.  He didn’t say so, but I suppose he will.”

“I should judge so,” said Maria.

When she entered the sitting-room, her aunt, who was knitting with a sort of fierce energy, looked up.  “Oh, it’s you!” said she.  Her face had an expression of hostility and tenderness at once.

“Yes, Aunt Maria.”

Aunt Maria surveyed her scrutinizingly.  “You don’t mean to say you didn’t wear your knit jacket under your coat, such a bitter day as this?” said she.

“I have been warm enough.”

Aunt Maria sniffed.  “I wonder when you will ever be old enough to take care of yourself?” said she.  “You need to be watched every minute like a baby.”

“I was warm enough, Aunt Maria,” Maria repeated, patiently.

“Well, sit down here by the stove and get heated through while I see to supper,” said Aunt Maria, crossly.  “I’ve got a hot beef-stew with dumplings for supper, and I guess I’ll make some chocolate instead of tea.  That always seems to me to warm up anybody better.”

“Don’t you want me to help?” said Maria.

“No; everything is all done except to make the chocolate.  I’ve had the stew on hours.  A stew isn’t good for a thing unless you have it on long enough to get the goodness out of the bone.”

Aunt Maria opened the door leading to the dining-room.  In winter it served the two as both kitchen and dining-room, having a compromising sort of stove on which one could cook, and which still did not look entirely plebeian and fitted only for the kitchen.  Maria saw through the open door the neatly laid table, with its red cloth and Aunt Maria’s thin silver spoons and china.  Aunt Maria had a weakness in one respect.  She liked to use china, and did not keep that which had descended to her from her mother stored away, to be taken out only for company, as her sister-in-law thought she properly should do.  The china was a fine Lowestoft pattern, and it was Aunt Maria’s pride that not a piece was missing.

“As long as I take care of my china myself, and am not dependent on some great, clumsy girl, I guess I can afford to use it,” she said.