earchingly up at her as she laid her mittens on
the pile. The girl, without a word, went into the bedroom, and her aunt
followed her.

"Isabel," said she rapidly, "I saw the chest. Have you burnt the
things?"

"No," answered Isabel in wonder. "No."

"Then don't you! don't you touch 'em for the world." She went back into
the sitting-room, and Isabel followed. The candle was guttering, and
aunt Mary Ellen pushed it toward her. "I don't know where the snuffers
are," she said. "Lamp smoke?"

Isabel did not answer, but she lighted the lamp. She had never seen her
aunt so full of decision, so charged with an unfamiliar power. She felt
as if strange things were about to happen. The parson was standing
awkwardly. He wondered whether he ought to go. Aunt Mary Ellen smoothed
her brown hair with both hands, sat down, and pointed to his chair.

"Sit a spell," she said. "I guess I shall have something to talk over
with you."

The parson sat down. He tried to put his fingers together, but they
trembled, and he clasped his hands instead.

"It's a long time since we've seen you in Tiverton," he began.

"It would have been longer," she answered, "but I felt as if my niece
needed me."

Here Isabel, to her own surprise, gave a little sob, and then another.
She began crying angrily into her handkerchief.

"Isabel," said her aunt, "is there a fire in the kitchen?"

"Yes," sobbed the girl.

"Well, you go out there and lie down on the lounge till you feel better.
Cover you over, and don't be cold. I'll call you when there's anything
for you to do."

Tall Isabel rose and walked out, wiping her eyes. Her little aunt sat
mistress of the field. For many minutes there was silence, and the clock
ticked. The parson felt something rising in his throat. He blew his nose
vigorously.

"Mary Ellen"--he began. "But I don't know as you want me to call you
so!"

"You can call me anything you're a mind to," she answered calmly. She
was near-sighted, and had always worn spectacles. She took them off and
laid them on her knee. The parson moved involuntarily in his chair. He
remembered how she had used to do that when they were talking
intimately, so that his eager look might not embarrass her. "Nothing
makes much difference when folks get to be as old as you and I are."

"I don't feel old," said the parson resentfully. "I do _not_! And you
don't look so."

"Well, I am. We're past our youth. We've got to the point where the
only way to r