"Marianne . . ." Constance began.
"Are you angry, Aunt Constance?"
"No, darling, why . . ."
"Yes, you are angry with me."
"Why, Marianne!"
"Yes, you are different. I have seen it for some time; there's something, I know . . ."
It was no longer the joyous, playful, almost mischievous voice in which she had said this before. It now sounded rather like a cry of fear, because it, "that," seemed so obvious that every one was bound to see it, that Aunt Constance herself must needs see it . . . and be angry.
"Really, Marianne, I am not angry. But I wanted to speak to you alone . . ."
"Oh, then you are angry!" she said, passionately, almost hiding herself in Constance' arms. "Don't be angry!" she said, almost entreatingly. "Do tell me that you will try . . . not to be angry with me!"
She betrayed herself almost entirely, incapable of keeping back that which had once shone from her and which now nearly threatened to sob itself from her. Constance could find no words.
"We shall soon be going away, Auntie!" said Marianne, her features wrung with grief. "And then you will not see me any more . . . and then . . . then perhaps you will never have any reason to be angry with me again . . ."
And then, all at once, she gave a sob, an irresisti-
