Why my aunt had never married was a mystery to me, for she was lovable
in every way, and must have been very beautiful in her youth.
Thirty-six she would be next May-day, she had told me. Thirty-six
seemed to me, just sixteen, a very great many years to have lived. But
aunt always was young to us; and the hint of her being an old maid was
always resented, very decidedly, by all her nieces.

"Aunt Edna," I said, "tell us a story--a love-story, please."

"Oh, little one, you have read _so_ many! And what can I tell you
more?" she answered, gently.

"Oh, aunty, I want a _true_ story! Do, darling aunty, tell us your
own. Tell us why you are blessing our home with your presence, instead
of that of some noble man, for noble he must have been to have won
your heart, and--hush-sh! Yes, yes; I know something about somebody,
and I must know all. Do, please!"

I plead on. I always could do more with Aunt Edna than any one else. I
was named for her, and many called me like her--"only not nearly so
pretty" was always added.

At last she consented, saying:

"Dear girls, to only one before have I given my entire confidence,
and that was my mother. I scarce know why I have yielded to your
persuasions, little Edna, save that this night, with its gloom and
rain, carries me back long years, and my heart seems to join its
pleading with yours, yearning to cast forth some of its fulness, and