life. A kind of rage of loneliness possessed her. She slipped out of
her clothes and went to bed, and then she lay awake. She heard her
father when he returned. The clock on a church which was near by
struck twelve soon after. Maria tried to imagine another woman in the
house in her mother's place; she thought of every eligible woman in
Edgham whom her father might select to fill that place, but her
little-girl ideas of eligibility were at fault. She thought only of
women of her mother's age and staidness, who wore bonnets. She could
think of only two, one a widow, one a spinster. She shuddered at the
idea of either. She felt that she would much rather have had her
father marry Aunt Maria than either of those women. She did not
altogether love Aunt Maria, but at least she was used to her.
Suddenly it occurred to her that Aunt Maria was disappointed, that
she felt badly. The absurdity of it struck her strongly, but she felt
a pity for her; she felt a common cause with her. After her father
had gone into his room, and the house had long been silent, she got
up quietly, opened her door softly, and crept across the hall to the
spare room, which Aunt Maria had occupied ever since she had been
there. She listened, and heard a soft sob. Then she turned the knob
of the door softly.

"Who is it?" Aunt Maria called out, sharply.

Maria was afraid that her father would hear.

"It's only me, Aunt Maria," she replied. Then she also gave a little
sob.

"What's the matter?"