he Polly-parrot coaxed and
wheedled and was rewarded with her morning biscuit. The flame-colored
fishes rose to the snowy particles which Eve strewed on the surface of
the water, and then with all of her family fed, Eve turned to the table,
sat down, and pulled away Aunt Maude's paper.

"My dear," the old lady protested.

"I want to talk to you," Eve announced. "Aunt Maude, I'm going to marry
Dicky."

Aunt Maude pushed back her plate of waffles. The red began to rise in her
cheeks. "Oh, of all the fools----"

"'He who calleth his brother a fool----'" Eve murmured pensively. "Aunt
Maude, I'm in love with him."

"You're in love with yourself," tartly, "and with having your own way.
The husband for you is Philip Meade. But he wants you, and so--you don't
want him."

"Dicky wants me, too," Eve said, a little wistfully; "you mustn't forget
that, Aunt Maude."

"I'm not forgetting it." Then sharply, "Shall you go to live at
Crossroads?"

"No. Austin has made him an offer. He's coming back to town."

"What do you expect to live on?"

Silence. Then, uncertainly, "I thought perhaps until he gets on his feet
you'd make us an allowance."

The old lady exploded in a short laugh. She gathered up her paper and her
spectacles case and her bag of fancy work. Then she rose. "Not if you
marry Richard Brooks. You may as well know that now as later, Eve. All
your life you have shaken the plum tree and have gathered the fruit. You
may come to your senses when you find there isn't any tree to shake."

The deep red in the cheeks of the old woman was matched by the red that
stained Eve's fairness. "Keep your money," she said, passionately; "I can
get along without it. You've always made me feel like a pauper, Aunt
Maude."

The old woman's hand went up. There was about her a dignity not to be
ignored. "I think you are saying more than you mean, Eve. I have tried to
be generous."

They were much alike as they faced each other, the same clear cold eyes,
the same set of the head, the only difference Eve's youth and
slenderness and radiant beauty. Perhaps in some far distant past Aunt
Maude had been like Eve. Perhaps in some far distant future Eve's soft
lines would stiffen into a second edition of Aunt Maude.

"I have tried to be generous," Aunt Maude repeated.

"You have been. I shouldn't have said that. But, Aunt Maude, it hasn't
been easy to eat the bread of dependence."

"You are feeling that now," said the old lady shrew