I was arrested, but turned my eyes toward mother; hers were closed.
Presently she murmured, "Thank God," opened them, and saw me. A smile
lighted her pale countenance. "Cassy, my darling, kiss me. I am glad
it is not a woman." As I returned her kiss her glance dropped on a
small bunch by her side, which Mehitable took and deftly unrolled,
informing me as she did so that it was a "Rouser."

Aunt Mercy came the next day. She had not paid us a visit in a long
time, being confined at home with the care of her father, Grandfather
Warren. She took charge of Veronica and me, if taking charge means
a series of guerilla skirmishes on both sides. I soon discovered,
however, that she was prone to laughter, and that I could provoke
it; we got on better after that discovery; but Veronica, disdaining
artifice, was very cross with her. Aunt Mercy had a spark of fun in
her composition, which was not quite crushed out by her religious
education. She frequented the church oftener than mother, sang more
hymns, attended all the anniversary celebrations, but she had no
dreams, no enthusiasm. Her religion had leveled all needs and all
aspirations. What the day brought forth answered her. She inspired me
with a secret pity; for I knew she carried in her bosom the knowledge
that she was an old maid.

Before mother left her room Veronica was taken ill, and was not
convalescent till spring. Delicacy of constitution the doctor called
her disorder. She had no strength, no appetite, and looked more elfish
than ever. She would not stay in bed, and could not sit up, so father
had a chair made for her, in which she could recline comfortably. Aunt
Merce put her in it every morning, and took her out every evening. My
presence irritated her, so I visited her but seldom. She said I looked
so well, it hurt her, and wished me to keep out of her sight, begged