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."

"Well, I hopes she has him," Mandy husked an ear of corn viciously. "I
ain' got my boy. He hol's his haid so high, he ain' got no time fo' his
ol' Mammy."

"You know you are proud of him, Mandy."

"I ain' sayin' I is, and I ain' sayin' I isn't. But dat Daisy down the
road, she ac' like she own him."

"Oh, Daisy? Is he in love with her?"

"Love," with withering scorn, "_love_? Ain' he got somefin' bettah to do
than lovin' when he's jes' fit and fought fo' Uncle Sam