Gurgling Gertrude—dear old thing, with tears in her eyes—was singing "Abide with Me."
Suddenly a flash of understanding came to him. Out of the dim past he recalled a phrase of Aunt Verona's which now explained much. "You must always try to listen to the sermon, child, and believe all they tell you in church. It was your mother's wish." That was it! That was why Aunt Verona had never checked his piety; that explained her queer smiles and reticences and sighs and head-shakes; that was why she could say "God" and he couldn't—because of some dying injunction of her sister's! The loyalty of Aunt Verona—and the unquestioning faith of his poor mother! It was beautiful that his mother had believed in all these notions. They ceased to be silly when she believed in them; they only became so when it was a question of his own mind. Aunt Verona had known better. And now he would, gradually, have to think back through his whole life and make a new allowance for the fact that Aunt Verona had been under a handicap regarding the free expression of her views. Was that, perhaps, why she had made him memorize texts? He was glad of his mother's injunction, glad that Aunt Verona had dutifully fulfilled her compact in so far as she was able, glad that he was free to disbelieve for himself now that Aunt Verona's stewardship was at an end and he was—well, scarcely grown-up, but very old for his age—much older than other boys of twelve, almost old enough to commence that vague worldwide adventure which he had often discussed with Aunt Verona.
The day on which Aunt Verona had burnt her manuscript had been a milestone in his experience. Her act had turned the key in a lock of desire. She had destroyed his only clue to romantic and adventurous living; therefore he must plan to see for himself all the marvels he and Aunt Verona had talked about, do all the marvels she and he knew there were to be done. She could have
