CHAPTER II

AUNT ANNE


In the morning, however, she discovered no fine things anywhere. The
hours that had elapsed since her father's death had wrought in him a
"sea-change." He had gained nobility, almost beauty. She wondered
with a desolate self-criticism whether during all those years she
had been to blame and not he. Perhaps he had wished for sympathy and
intimacy and she had repulsed him. His little possessions here and
there about the house reproached her.

Uncle Mathew had a bad headache and would not come down to
breakfast. She felt indignant with him but also indulgent. He had
shown himself hopelessly lacking in good taste, and good feeling,
but then she had never supposed that he had these things. At the
same time the last support seemed to have been removed from her; it
might well be that her Aunt Anne would not care for her and would
not wish to have her in her house. What should she do then? Whither
should she go? She flung up her head and looked bravely into the
face of Ellen, the cook, who came to remove the breakfast, but she
had to bite her lip to keep back the tears that WOULD come and fill
her eyes so that the world was misty and obscure.

There was, she fancied, something strange about Ellen. In HER eyes
some obscure triumph or excitement, some scorn and derision, Maggie