em patiently, but sometimes I ain't been patient--she's always
made me feel so ugly."

Rosemary said nothing, but she felt a strange softening of her heart
toward Aunt Matilda. "I don't know as you'll believe me," the older
woman went on after a pause, "but I never knew nothin' about that
money."

[Sidenote: Pity for Aunt Matilda]

"I know you didn't, Aunt Matilda. It's behind a loose brick in the
chimney, in the attic, on the right-hand side. You have to stand on a
chair to reach it. If you want any of it, go and help yourself. It's
mine, and you're welcome to it, as far as I'm concerned."

"I don't know what I'd want," returned Matilda, gloomily. "I ain't never
had nothin', and I've sort of got out of the habit. I did used to think
that if it ever come my way, I'd like a white straw hat with red roses
on it, but I'm too old for it now."

Tears of pity filled Rosemary's eyes and a lump rose in her throat. Aunt
Matilda's deprivations had been as many as her own, and had extended
over a much longer period. The way of escape was open for Rosemary, but
the older woman must go on, hopelessly, until the end.

"It was sixteen years ago to-night," said Aunt Matilda, dreamily, "that
the minister come to call."

"Was it?" asked Rosemary. She did not know what else to say.

"I thought maybe you'd remember it, but I guess you was too little. You
was only nine, and you used to go to bed at half-past seven. It was five
minutes of eight when he come."

[Sidenote: The Minister Asks to Call]

"Was it?" asked Rosemary, again.

"Yes. Don't you remember hearin' the door bell ring?"

"No--I must have been asleep."

"Children go to sleep awful quick. It was five minutes of eight when he
come."

"Were you expecting him?"

"No, I wasn't. He'd said to me once, on the way out of church after
Sunday-school: 'Miss Matilda, I must be comin' over to see you some one
of these pleasant evenings, with your kind permission,' Just like that,
he says, 'with your kind permission,' I was so flustered I couldn't say
much, but I did manage to tell him that Ma and me would be pleased to
see him any time, and what do you suppose he said?"

"I don't know," answered Rosemary.

"He said: 'It's you I'm comin' to see--not your Ma,' Just like
that--'It's you!'" Her voice had a new note in it--a strange thrill of
tenderness.

"And so," she went on, after a pause, "he come. I was wearin' my brown
alpaca that I'd just finished. I'd tried it on a