“Well?” said Aunt Elizabeth.  She was looking at me, and again I saw how long it must have been since she was young.  “Well, what do you think of it?”

I told the truth.  “Oh,” said I, “I think it’s a beautiful letter!”

“You do!” said Aunt Elizabeth.  “Does it strike you as being a love-letter!”

I couldn’t answer fast enough.  “Why, Aunt Elizabeth,” I said, “he tells you so.  He says he loves you eternally.  It’s beautiful!”

“You fool!” said Aunt Elizabeth.  “You pink-cheeked little fool!  You haven’t opened the door yet—­not any door, not one of them—­oh, you happy, happy fool!” She called through the window (mother was arranging flowers there for tea):  “Ada, you must telephone the Banner.  My engagement is not to be announced.”  Then she turned to me.  “Peggy’” said she, in a low voice, as if mother was not to hear, “to-morrow you must drive with me to Whitman.”

Something choked me in my throat:  either fear of her or dread of what she meant to make me do.  But I looked into her face and answered with all the strength I had:  “Aunt Elizabeth, I sha’n’t go near the hospital.”

“Don’t you think it’s decent for you to call on Mrs. Goward?” she asked.

She gave me a little shake.  It made me angry.  “It may be decent,” I said, “but I sha’n’t do it.”

“Very well,” said Aunt Elizabeth.  Her voice was sweet again.  “Then I must do it for you.  Nobody asks you to see Harry himself.  I’ll run in and have a word with him—­but, Peggy, you simply must pay your respects to Mrs. Goward.”

“No! no! no!” I heard myself answering, as if I were in some strange dream.  Then I said:  “Why, it would be dreadful!  Mother wouldn’t let me!”

Aunt Elizabeth came closer and put her hands on my shoulders.  She has a little fragrance about her, not like flowers, but old laces, perhaps, that have been a long time in a drawer with orris and face-powder and things.  “Peggy,” said she, “never tell your mother I asked you.”

I felt myself stiffen.  She was whispering, and I saw she meant it.

“Oh, Peggy! don’t tell your mother.  She is not—­not simpatica.  I might lose my home here, my only home.  Peggy, promise me.”

“Daughter!” mother was calling from the dining-room.

I slipped away from Aunt Elizabeth’s hands.  “I promise,” said I.  “You sha’n’t lose your home.”

“Daughter!” mother called again, and I went in.

That night at supper nobody talked except father and mother, and they did every minute, as if they wanted to keep the rest of us from speaking a word.  It was all about the Works.  Father was describing some new designs he had accepted, and telling how Charles Edward said they would do very well for the trimmings of a hearse, and mother coughed and said Charles Edward’s ideas were always good, and father said not where the market was concerned.  Aunt Elizabeth had put on a white dress, and I thought