"Rosemary!"

Grandmother called imperiously, but there was no answer. "Rosemary!" she cried, shrilly.

"She ain't here, Ma," said Matilda. "I reckon she's gone out somewheres."

"Did you ever see the beat of it? She's getting high and mighty all of a sudden. This makes twice lately that she's gone out without even tellin' us, let alone askin' whether she could go or not. Just wait till she comes back."

Matilda laughed in her most aggravating manner. "I reckon we'll have to wait," she retorted, "as long as we don't know where she's gone or when she's comin' back."

"Just wait," repeated Grandmother, ominously. "I'll tell her a thing or two. You just see if I don't!"

The fires of her wrath smouldered dully, ready to blaze forth at any moment. Matilda waited with the same sort of pleasurable excitement which impels a child to wait under the open window of a house in which there is good reason to believe that an erring playmate is about to receive punishment.

"What's she been doin' all day?" Grandmother demanded.

"Nothin' more than usual, I guess," Matilda replied. "She did up the work this morning and got dinner, and washed the dishes and went to the store, and when she come back, she was up in the attic for a spell, and then she went out without sayin' where she was goin'."

"In the attic? What was she doin' in the attic?"

"I don't know, I'm sure."

"She's got no call to go to the attic. If I want her to go up there, I'll tell her so. This is my house."

"Yes," returned Matilda, with a sigh. "I've heard tell that it was."

"Humph!" grunted Grandmother.

For an hour or more there was silence, not peaceful, but tense, for Grandmother was thinking of things she might say to the wayward Rosemary. Then the culprit came in, cheerfully singing to herself, and unmindful of impending judgment.

"Rosemary!"

"Yes, Grandmother. What is it?"

"Come here!"

Rosemary obeyed readily enough, though she detected warlike possibilities in the tone.

"Set down! I've got something to say to you!"

"I have something to say to you, too, Grandmother," Rosemary replied, taking the chair indicated by the shaking forefinger. For the first time in her life she was not afraid of the old lady.

"I've noticed," Grandmother began, tremulously, "that you're getting high and mighty all of a sudden. You've gone out twice lately without askin' if you might go, and I won't have it. Do you understand?"

"I hear you," the girl answered. "Is that all?"

"No, 'tain't all. You don't seem to have any sense of your position. Here you are a poor orphan, beholden to your grandmother for every mouthful you eat and all the clothes you wear, and if you can't behave yourself better 'n you've been doin', you shan't stay."

A faint smile appeared around the corners of Rosemary's mouth, then vanished. "Very well, Grandmother," she answered, demurely, rising from her chair. "I'll go whenever you want me to. Shall I go now?"

"Set down," commanded the old lady. "I'd like to know where you'd go!"

"I'd go to Mrs. Marsh's; I think she'd take me in."

"You've got another think comin' then," Grandmother sneered. "Didn't I tell you to set down?"

"Yes," returned Rosemary, coolly, "but I'm not going to. I said I had something to say to you. I'm going to be married next week to Alden Marsh. I've taken enough of the money my father left me to buy a white dress and a new hat, and the storekeeper has sent to the City for me for some white shoes and stockings. I'm going to have some pretty underwear, too, and a grey travelling dress. I've just come from the dressmakers, now."

"Money!" screamed the old lady. "So that's what you've been doin' in the attic. You're a thief, that's what you are! Your mother was——"

"Stop!" said Rosemary. Her voice was low and controlled, but her face was very white. "Not another word against my mother. You've slandered her for the last time. I am not a poor orphan, beholden to my grandmother for the food I eat and the clothes I wear. On the contrary, you and Aunt Matilda are dependent upon me, and have been for a good many years. I have father's letter here. Do you care to read it?"

Shaken from head to foot, the old lady sank into her chair. She was speechless, but her eyes blazed. Matilda sat by the window, dumb with astonishment. This was not at all what she had expected. Rosemary had drawn a yellow old letter from the recesses of her brown gingham gown and was offering it to Grandmother. The sight of it had affected the old lady powerfully.

"Very well," Rosemary was saying, as she returned the letter to its hiding-place. "In case you've forgotten, I'll tell you what's in it. The day father sailed up the coast, he sent you a draft for more than eleven thousand dollars. He said it was for me—for my clothes and my education, in case anything happened to him. He said that you were to give me whatever I might want or need, as long as the money lasted. I'll leave it to you whether you've carried out his instructions or not.

"Now that I'm going to be married, I've taken the liberty of helping myself to a small part of what is my own. There's almost two thousand dollars left, and you're quite welcome to it, but I won't be married in brown gingham nor go to my husband in ragged shoes, and if I think of anything else I want, I'm going to have it."

"Ma," said Matilda, tremulously, "if this is so, we ain't done right by Rosemary."

"It's so," Rosemary continued, turning toward the figure at the window. "You can read the letter if you want to." She put her hand to her breast again, but Matilda shook her head.

"If you want me to," the girl went on, "I'll go now. Mrs. Marsh will take me in, but I'll have to explain why I ask it. I haven't told Alden, or his mother, and I don't want to. I won't bring shame upon those of my own blood if I can help it. But what I've had, I've earned, and I don't feel indebted to you for anything, not even a single slice of bread. That's all."

Grandmother staggered to her feet, breathing heavily. Her face was colourless, her lips ashen grey. "Rosemary Starr," she said, with long pauses between the words, "I'll never—speak to—you—again as—long as—I—live." Then she fell back into her chair, with her hand upon her heart.

"Very well, Grandmother," Rosemary returned, shrugging her shoulders. "You'll have to do as you like about that."

By supper-time the household was calm again—upon the surface. True to her word, Grandmother refused to communicate directly with Rosemary. She treated the girl as she might a piece of furniture—unworthy of attention except in times of actual use.

She conveyed her wishes through Matilda, as a sort of human telephone. "Matilda," she would say, "will you ask Rosemary to fill the tea-pot with hot water?" And, again: "Matilda, will you tell Rosemary to put out the milk pitcher and to lock the back door?" It was not necessary; however, for Matilda to tell Rosemary. The girl accepted the requests as though they had been given directly—with her head held high and the faintest shadow of an ironical smile upon her face.

After supper, while Rosemary was washing the dishes, Grandmother took the lamp. She was half-way to the door when Matilda inquired: "Where are you goin', Ma?"

"I'm goin' up to my room, to set and read a spell."

"But—but the lamp?"

"I need it to read by," Grandmother announced, with considerable asperity, "and you don't need to hunt around for no more lamps, neither. I've got 'em all put away."

"But," Matilda objected; "me and Rosemary——."

"You and Rosemary! Humph! You can set in the dark or anywhere else you please." With that she slammed the door and was gone. Rosemary came in, after a little, humming to herself with an assumed cheerfulness she was far from feeling. Then she went out into the kitchen and came back with a match. The feeble flicker of it revealed only Aunt Matilda—and no lamp.

"Where's Grandmother?" asked Rosemary, in astonishment. "And what has become of the lamp?"

"She's gone up to her room and she's took the lamp with her," Matilda laughed, hysterically.

Rosemary brought in the candle from the kitchen. As it happened, it was the last candle and was nearly gone, but it would burn for an hour or two.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Matilda," said Rosemary, kindly, "if you want to read, or anything——."

"I don't," she interrupted. "I'd like to sit and talk a spell. I don't know as we need the candle. If she should happen to come back, she'd be mad. She said she'd put away the lamps, and I reckon she'd have took the candle, too, if she'd thought."

"Very well," answered Rosemary, blowing out the candle. "I'm not afraid of the dark." Moreover, it was not the general policy of the household to ruffle Grandmother's temper unnecessarily.

"Rosemary," said Aunt Matilda, a little later; "Ma's a hard woman—she always has been."

"Yes," the girl agreed, listlessly.

"I ain't never said much, but I've had my own troubles. I've tried to bear '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."

"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."

"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 after supper to see if it was all right, and it was, so I kept on wearin' it, though Ma was tellin' me all the time to take it off. Her and me had just cleaned the parlour that day. It couldn't have happened better. And when the bell rang, I went to the door myself."

"Were you surprised?"

"My land, yes! I'd thought maybe he'd come, but not without tellin' me when, or askin' for permission, as he'd said. He come in and took off his hat just like he was expected, and he shook hands with Ma and me. He only said 'How do you do Mis' Starr?' to her, but to me, he says: 'I'm glad to see you, Miss Matilda. How well you're looking!' Yes—just like that.

"We went and set down in the parlour. I'd cleaned the lamp that day, too—it was the same lamp Ma's took up-stairs with her now. It was on the centre-table, by the basket of wax-flowers under the glass shade. They was almost new then and none of 'em was broken. They looked awful pretty.

"Ma came in the parlour, too, and she set down between him and me, and she says: 'I've been wantin' to ask you something ever since I heard your last sermon, three weeks ago come Sunday. I ain't been to church since and I can't feel like I ought to go.'

"'I'm sorry,' he says, just as gentle. 'If you have any doubts that I can clear up,' he says, 'about the Scripture——'

"''Tain't the Scripture I'm doubtin',' says Ma, 'it's you.'

"'That isn't as bad,' he says, smilin', but I could see he was scared. You know how Ma is—especially when you ain't used to her.

"'I'd like to ask,' says Ma, 'whether you believe that unbaptised infants is goin' to be saved.'

"'Why, yes,' he says. 'I do,'

"'I suspicioned it,' Ma says. Oh, her voice was awful! 'May I ask you just what grounds you have for believin' such a thing?'

"'I don't know as I could tell you just what grounds I have,' he says, 'but I certainly feel that the God I humbly try to serve is not only just but merciful. And if there's anything on earth purer or more like a flower than a little baby,' he says, 'I don't know what it is, whether it's been baptised or not. I don't think God cares so much about forms and ceremonies as he does about people's hearts,' Them's the very words he said.

"Well," resumed Matilda, after a pause, "Ma was bent on arguin' with him, about that, and baptisin' by sprinklin' or by immersion, and about the lost tribes of Israel, and goodness knows what else. He didn't want to argue, and was all the time tryin' to change the subject, but it was no use. I never got a chance to say a dozen words to him, and finally, when he got up to go, he says: 'I've had a very pleasant evenin', and I'd like to come again sometime soon, if I may,' he says. Just like that.

"And before I could say a word, Ma had said: 'I dunno as we feel ourselves in need of your particular brand of theology,' she says. 'It's my opinion that you ought to be up before the trustees instead of around callin' on faithful members of the church, sowin' the seeds of doubt in their minds.'"

"His face turned bright red, but he shook hands with Ma, very polite, and with me. I've always thought he squeezed my hand a little. And he says to me, very pleasant: 'Good-night, Miss Matilda,' but that was all, for Ma went to the door with him and banged it shut before he'd got down the steps.

"The day before he went away, I met him in the post-office, accidental, and he says: 'Miss Matilda, I've got somethin' for you if you'll accept it,' and he took me over to one side where there couldn't nobody see us, and he give me his tintype. And he says: 'I hope you'll always remember me, Miss Matilda. You'll promise not to forget me, won't you?'

"And I promised," she resumed, "and I ain't. I've always remembered."

There was a long silence, then Miss Matilda cleared her throat. "Light the candle, Rosemary, will you?"

When the tiny flame appeared, Rosemary saw that the older woman's face was wet with unaccustomed tears. She reached down into the bosom of her dress and drew out a small packet, which she removed carefully from its many wrappings. "See," she said.

Rosemary leaned over to look at the pictured face. The heavy beard did not wholly conceal the sensitive, boyish mouth, and even the crude art had faithfully portrayed the dreamy, boyish eyes.

"I want to ask you something," Aunt Matilda said, as she wrapped it up again. "You're going to be married yourself, now, and you'll know about such things. Do you think, if it hadn't been for Ma, it might have been—anything?"

Rosemary put out the light. "I'm sure it would," she said, kindly.

"Oh, Rosemary!" breathed the other, with a quick indrawing of the breath. "Are you truly sure?"

"Truly," said Rosemary, very softly. Then she added, convincingly: "You know Alden's never been to see me but once, and I haven't even a tintype of him, and yet we're going to be married."

"That's so. I hadn't thought of that. I guess you're right." Then she added, generously, "I'm glad you're goin' to be married, Rosemary, and I hope you'll be happy. You've got it comin' to you."

"Thank you," said Rosemary, choking a little on the words. "Thank you, dear Aunt Matilda." Then someway, in the dark, their arms found each other and their lips met.