“Well, my knees are weak,” Mrs. Beaufort admitted.

The nuns had taught Becky nice ways and useful arts, so she folded and packed under Aunt Claudia’s eye and was much applauded.

“Most girls in these days,” said Mrs. Beaufort, “throw things in.  Last summer I stayed at a house where the girls sat on their trunks to shut them, and sent parcel-post packages after them of the things they had left out.”

“Sister Loretto says that I am not naturally tidy, so she keeps me at it.  I used to weep my eyes out when she’d send me back to my room——­ But crying doesn’t do any good with Sister Loretto.”

“Crying is never any good,” said Aunt Claudia.  She was of Spartan mold.  “Crying only weakens.  When things are so bad that you must cry, then do it where the world can’t see.”

Becky found herself thrilled by the thought of Aunt Claudia crying in secret.  She was a martial little soul in spite of her distinctly feminine type of mind.

Aunt Claudia’s lingerie, chastely French-embroidered in little scallops, with fresh white ribbons run in, was laid out on the bed in neat piles.  There was also a gray corduroy dressing-gown, lined with silk.

“This will be too warm,” Becky said; “please let me put in my white crepe house-coat.  It will look so pretty, Aunt Claudia, when Truxton comes in the morning to kiss you——­”

Aunt Claudia had been holding on to her emotions tightly.  The thought of that morning kiss which for three dreadful years had been denied her—­for three dreadful years she had not known whether Truxton would ever breeze into her room before breakfast with his “Mornin’ Mums.”  She felt that if she allowed herself any softness or yielding at this moment she would spoil her spotless record of self-control and weep in maudlin fashion in Becky’s arms.

So in self-defense, she spoke with coldness.  “I never wear borrowed clothes, my dear.”

Becky, somewhat dishevelled and warm from her exertions, sat down to argue it.  “I haven’t had it on.  And I’d love to give it to you——­”

“My dear, of course not.  It’s very generous of you—­very——­” Aunt Claudia buried her face suddenly in the pillows and sobbed stormily.

Becky stood up.  “Oh, Aunt Claudia,” she gasped.  Then with the instinctive knowledge that silence was best, she gave her aunt a little pat on the shoulder and crept from the room.

She crept back presently and packed the crepe house-coat with the other things.  Then, since Aunt Claudia made no sign, she went down-stairs to the kitchen.

Mandy, the cook, who had a complexion like an old copper cent, and who wore a white Dutch cap in place of the traditional bandana, was cutting corn from the cob for fritters.

“If you’ll make a cup of tea,” Becky said, “I’ll take it up to Aunt Claudia.  She’s lying down.”

“Is you goin’ wid her?” Mandy asked.

“To New York?  No.  She’ll want Truxton all to herself, Mandy.”