trinkets because I happen to have given them to you? Keep them, they
may be useful one day when you have a husband and a family and no money.
Pearls may pay the butcher and the rent."

"Thank you for all your kindness, Aunt, and good-bye. I am sorry that
I am not able to do as you wish about marriage, but after all a woman's
life is her own."

"That's just what it isn't and never has been. A woman's life is her
husband's and her children's, and that's why--but it is no use arguing.
You have taken your own line. Perhaps you are right, God knows. At any
rate, it isn't mine, so we had better part. Still, I rather admire your
courage. I wonder what this young fellow is like for whose sake you are
prepared to lose so much; more than you think, maybe, for I had grown
fond of you. Well, good-bye, I'll see about your getting off. There,
don't think that I bear malice although I am so angry with you. Write to
me when you get into a tight place," and rising, she kissed her, rather
roughly but not without affection, and flung out of the room like one
who feared to trust herself there any longer.



On the evening of the following day Barbara, emerging from the carrier's
cart at the blacksmith's corner at Eastwich, was met by a riotous throng
of five energetic young sisters who nearly devoured her with kisses.
So happy was that greeting, indeed, that in it she almost forgot her
sorrows. In truth, as she reflected, why should she be sorry at all?
She was clear of a suitor whom she did not wish to marry, and of an aunt
whose very kindness was oppressive and whose temper was terrible. She
had fifty pounds in her pocket and a good stock of clothes, to say