But worse even than this was the remembrance of that look in Aunt Elizabeth’s eyes.
Her own sense of outrage and sacrilege ebbed away under the remembrance. She thought of all the things she had written her father about Aunt Elizabeth—sharp, bitter things, some of them just, some of them unjust. She began to feel that she should not have written them. It was true enough that Aunt Elizabeth had not loved her—had not wanted to take her to New Moon. But she had taken her and though it had been done in duty, not in love, the fact remained. It was no use for her to tell herself that it wasn’t as if the letters were written to any one living, to be seen and read by others. While she was under Aunt Elizabeth’s roof—while she owed the food she ate and the clothes she wore to Aunt Elizabeth—she should not say, even to her father, harsh things of her. A Starr should not have done it.
“I must go and ask Aunt Elizabeth to forgive me,” thought Emily at last, all the passion gone out of her and only regret and repentance left. “I suppose she never will—she’ll hate me always now. But I must go.”
She turned herself about—and then the door opened and Aunt Elizabeth entered. She came across the room and stood at the side of the bed, looking down at the grieved little face on the pillow—a face that in the dim, rainy twilight, with its tear-stains and black shadowed eyes, looked strangely mature and chiseled.
Elizabeth Murray was still austere and cold. Her voice sounded stern; but she said an amazing thing.
“Emily, I had no right to read your letters. I admit I was wrong. Will you forgive me?”
“Oh!” The word was almost a cry. Aunt Elizabeth had at last discerned the way to conquer Emily. The latter lifted herself up, flung her arms about Aunt Elizabeth, and said chokingly,
“Oh—Aunt Elizabeth—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I
