out more about Edith before he
went?"

Gertrude was forced to acknowledge that she did think so; and,
furthermore, she confessed that her brother Dennis was so enraged at
Bronson's conduct that he declared he should never be asked there again.

"I'm glad of it!" declared Cynthia, emphatically. "It's about time you
all found out what a cad that Bronson is. If you knew as much as I know
about him you would have come to that conclusion long ago."

"Oh, of course you are prejudiced by Neal Gordon! I wouldn't take his
word for anything. By-the-way, have you seen him lately?"

"Yes, very lately. He came out to Brenton the other day."

"Did he, really?" cried Gertrude, curiously. "I thought he was never
coming back. The last story was that your father had turned him
out-of-doors."

"How perfectly absurd! I should think _you_ knew enough about us to
contradict that, Gertrude! Will you please tell every one there is no
truth in it, at all?"

"But where is he now? Is he here? Why has nobody seen him? Wasn't any of
it true?"

"Dear me, Gertrude, you are nothing but a big interrogation point!"
laughed Cynthia, who had no intention of replying to any of these
questions; and Gertrude, baffled and somewhat ashamed of herself, soon
took her departure without having learned anything beyond the fact that
Neal had lately been in town and, as she supposed, at his sister's.

Aunt Betsey came from Wayborough as soon as she heard of what happened.
It was her first visit there since the death of Silas Green, and
naturally she was much affected.

"Cynthy, my dear," she said, after talking about him for some time to
her nieces, "let me give you a word of warning: Never put off till
to-morrow what can be done to-day! It is a good proverb, and worth
remembrance. If I hadn't put off and put off, and been so unwilling to
give up my view, I might have made Silas's last years happier. Perhaps
he'd have been here yet if I'd been with him to take care of him. Oh,
one has to give up--one has to give up in this world!"

They were in Edith's room, and Edith, listening, felt that Aunt Betsey
was right. She, too, had learned--many, many years earlier in life than
did her aunt--that one must learn to give up.

Miss Betsey did not look the same. The gay dress that she once wore was
discarded, and she was soberly clad in black. She really was not unlike
other people now, but her speech was as quaint as ever.

She brought Willy's present with her