Aunt Hannah for years. She was the widow of a distant cousin, and she
lived in a snug little room in a Back Bay boarding-house. She was a
slender, white-haired woman with kind blue eyes, and a lovable smile.
Her cheeks were still faintly pink, and her fine silver-white hair broke
into little kinks and curls about her ears. According to Bertram she
always made one think of "lavender and old lace."

She welcomed William cordially this morning, though with faint surprise
in her eyes.

"Yes, I know I'm an early caller, and an unexpected one," began William,
hurriedly. "And I shall have to plunge straight into the matter, too,
for there isn't time to preamble. I've taken an eighteen-year-old girl
to bring up, Aunt Hannah, and I want you to come down and live with us
to chaperon her."

"My grief and conscience, WILLIAM!" gasped the little woman, agitatedly.

"Yes, yes, I know, Aunt Hannah, everything you would say if you could.
But please skip the hysterics. We've all had them, and Kate has already
used every possible adjective that you could think up. Now it's just
this." And he hurriedly gave Mrs. Stetson a full account of the case,
and told her plainly what he hoped and expected that she would do for
him.

"Why, yes, of course--I'll come," acquiesced the lady, a little
breathlessly, "if--if you are sure you're going to--keep her."

"Good! And remember I said 'now,' please--that I wanted you to come
right away, to-day. Of course Kate can't stay. Just get in half a dozen