as the day declined, she put out the lamp and went to bed, with the
object of sustaining and displaying her chagrin.

When I came in she was in the act of peeling invisible potatoes; there
are potatoes scattered over the floor, everywhere. My feet kick them
and send them rolling heavily among odds and ends of utensils and a
soft deposit of garments that are lying about. As soon as I am there
my aunt overflows with noisy tears.

Not daring to speak again, I sit down in my usual corner.

Over the bed I can make out a pointed shape, like a mounted picture,
silhouetted against the curtains, which slightly blacken the window.
It is as though the quilt were lifted from underneath by a stick, for
my Aunt Josephine is leanness itself.

Gradually she raises her voice and begins to lament. "You've no
feelings, no--you're heartless,--that dreadful word you said to
me,--you said, 'You and your jawing!' Ah! people don't know what I
have to put up with--ill-natured--cart-horse!"

In silence I hear the tear-streaming words that fall and founder in the
dark room from that obscure blot on the pillow which is her face.

I stand up. I sit down again. I risk saying, "Come now, come; that's
all done with."

She cries: "Done with? Ah! it will never be done with!"

With the sheet that night is begriming she muzzles herself, and hides