nscious of Great-aunt Eliza, who never said a word to us,
despite her previously expressed desire to become acquainted with us.
She kept on looking at the photographs and seemed quite oblivious of our
presence.

Presently the girls returned, having, as transpired later, been so
successful in removing the traces of Paddy's mischief that it was not
deemed necessary to worry Great-aunt Eliza with any account of it.
Felicity announced tea and, while Cecily conveyed Great-aunt Eliza out
to the dining-room, lingered behind to consult with us for a moment.

"Ought we to ask her to say grace?" she wanted to know.

"I know a story," said the Story Girl, "about Uncle Roger when he was
just a young man. He went to the house of a very deaf old lady and when
they sat down to the table she asked him to say grace. Uncle Roger had
never done such a thing in his life and he turned as red as a beet
and looked down and muttered, 'E-r-r, please excuse me--I--I'm not
accustomed to doing that.' Then he looked up and the old lady said
'Amen,' loudly and cheerfully. She thought Uncle Roger was saying grace
all the time."

"I don't think it's right to tell funny stories about such things," said
Felicity coldly. "And I asked for your opinion, not for a story."

"If we don't ask her, Felix must say it, for he's the only one who can,
and we must have it, or she'd be shocked."

"Oh, ask her--ask her," advised Felix hastily.

She was asked accordingly and said grace without any hesitation, after
which she proceeded to eat heartily of the excellent supper Felicity had
provided. The rusks were especially good and Great-aunt Eliza ate three
of them and praised them. Apart from that she said little and during the
first part of the meal we sat in embarrassed silence. Towards the last,
however, our tongues were loosened, and the Story Girl told us a tragic
tale of old Charlottetown and a governor's wife who had died of a broken
heart in the early days of the colony.

"They say that story isn't true," said Felicity. "They say what she
really died of was indigestion. The Governor's wife who lives there now
is a relation of our own. She is a second cousin of father's but we've
never seen her. Her name was Agnes Clark. And mind you, when father was
a young man he was dead in love with her and so was she with him."

"Who ever told you that?" exclaimed Dan.

"Aunt Olivia. And I've heard ma teasing father about it, too. Of course,
it was before father