e me, you may. I will introduce you to my
aunts at Felsenden as--as a friend of Camilla's. And I will be friends
with you; but nothing else ever. Do you care to know my aunts?"

Maurice had inspirations of sense sometimes. One came to him now, and he
said: "I care very much."

"Then help me to mend my bicycle, and you can call there to-morrow. It's
'The Grange'--you can't miss it. No, not another word of nonsense,
please, or we can't possibly be friends."

* * * * *

He helped her to mend the bicycle, and they talked of the beauty of
spring and of modern poetry.

* * * * *

It was at "The Grange," Felsenden, that Maurice next saw Miss
Redmayne--and it was from "The Grange," Felsenden, that, in September,
he married her.

"And why did you say you would never, never be anything but a friend?"
he asked her on the day when that marriage was arranged. "Oh! you nearly
made me believe you! Why did you say it?"

"One must say something!" she answered. "Besides, you'd never have
respected me if I'd said 'yes' at once."

"Could you have said it? Did you like me then?"

She looked at him, and her look was an answer. He stooped and gravely
kissed her.

"And you really cared, even then? I wish you had been braver," he said a
little sadly.

"Ah, but," she said, "I didn't know you then--you must try to forgive
me, dear. Think how much there was at stake! Suppose I had lost you!"

VII

THE AUNT AND THE EDITOR

Aunt Kate was the great comfort of Kitty's existence. Always kindly,
helpful, sympathetic, no girlish trouble was too slight, no girlish
question too difficult for her tender heart--her delicate insight. How
different from grim Aunt Eliza, with whom it was Kitty's fate to live.
Aunt Eliza was severe, methodical, energetic. In household matters she
spared neither herself nor her niece. Kitty could darn and mend and bake
and dust and sweep in a way which might have turned the parents of the
bluest Girtonian green with envy. She had read a great deal, too--the
really solid works that are such a nuisance to get through, and that
leave a mark on one's mind like the track of a steamroller. That was
Aunt Eliza's doing. Kitty ought to have been grateful--but she wasn't.
She didn't want to be improved with solid books. She wanted to write
books herself. She did write little tales when her aunt was out on
business, which was often, and she dreamed of