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The Voice of the People by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow
page 77 of 433 (17%)
house--the eldest and the best beloved. Then the crash came. The old
people passed away, the house changed hands, Aunt Griselda was stranded
upon the high tide of hospitality--and crewel work went out of fashion.

In her sister's home she became a constant guest--one to be offered the
favoured share and to be treated with tender, increasing tolerance--not
to be loved. Since the death of her parents none had loved her, though
many had borne gently with her spoiled fancies. But her coming in had
brought no light, and her going out had left nothing dark. She was old
and ill-tempered and bitter of speech, and, though all doors opened
hospitably at her approach, all closed quickly when she was gone. Her
spoiled youth had left her sensitive to trivial stings, unforgivable to
fancied wrongs. In a childish oversight she detected hidden malice and
implacable hate in a thoughtless jest. Her bitterness and her years
waxed greater together, and she lost alike her youth and her
self-control. When she had yearned for passionate affection she had
found kindly tolerance, and the longings of her hidden nature, which
none knew, were expressed in rasping words and acrid tears. Once, some
years after Bernard's birth, she had called him into her room as she sat
among her relics, and had shown him the daguerreotype.

"It's pitty lady," the child had lisped, and she had caught him suddenly
to her lean old breast, but he had broken into peevish cries and
struggled free, tearing with his foot the ruffle of the swiss muslin
gown.

"Oo ain't pitty lady," he had said, and Aunt Griselda had risen and
pushed him into the hall with sharp, scolding words, and had sat down to
darn the muslin ruffle with delicate, old-fashioned stitches.

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