"But I want an older woman. Oh, Aunt Frances, please, may I have Aunt
Isabelle?"

She had raised her voice so that Aunt Isabelle caught the name. "What
does she want, Frances?" asked the deaf woman; "what does she want?"

"She wants you to live with her--here." Aunt Frances was thinking
rapidly; it wasn't such a bad plan. It was always a problem to take
Isabelle when she and her daughter traveled. And if they left her in New
York there was always the haunting fear that she might be ill, or that
they might be criticized for leaving her.

"Mary wants you to live with her," she said, "While we are abroad, would
you like it--a winter in Washington?"

Aunt Isabelle's gentle face was illumined. "Do you really _want_ me, my
dear?" she asked in her hushed voice. It had been a long time since Aunt
Isabelle had felt that she was wanted anywhere. It seemed to her that
since the illness which had sent her into a world of silence, that her
presence had been endured, not coveted.

Mary came over and put her arms about her. "Will you, Aunt Isabelle?"
she asked. "I shall miss Constance so, and it would almost be like
having mother to have--you----"

No one knew how madly the hungry heart was beating under the silver-gray
gown. Aunt Isabella was only forty-eight, twelve years younger than her
sister Frances, but she had faded and drooped, while Frances had stood up
like a strong flower on its stem. And the little faded drooping lady
yearned for tenderness, was starved for it, and here was Mary in her