“Shoo,” she whispered nasally.

I was arrested, but turned my eyes toward mother; hers were closed.  Presently she murmured, “Thank God,” opened them, and saw me.  A smile lighted her pale countenance.  “Cassy, my darling, kiss me.  I am glad it is not a woman.”  As I returned her kiss her glance dropped on a small bunch by her side, which Mehitable took and deftly unrolled, informing me as she did so that it was a “Rouser.”

Aunt Mercy came the next day.  She had not paid us a visit in a long time, being confined at home with the care of her father, Grandfather Warren.  She took charge of Veronica and me, if taking charge means a series of guerilla skirmishes on both sides.  I soon discovered, however, that she was prone to laughter, and that I could provoke it; we got on better after that discovery; but Veronica, disdaining artifice, was very cross with her.  Aunt Mercy had a spark of fun in her composition, which was not quite crushed out by her religious education.  She frequented the church oftener than mother, sang more hymns, attended all the anniversary celebrations, but she had no dreams, no enthusiasm.  Her religion had leveled all needs and all aspirations.  What the day brought forth answered her.  She inspired me with a secret pity; for I knew she carried in her bosom the knowledge that she was an old maid.

Before mother left her room Veronica was taken ill, and was not convalescent till spring.  Delicacy of constitution the doctor called her disorder.  She had no strength, no appetite, and looked more elfish than ever.  She would not stay in bed, and could not sit up, so father had a chair made for her, in which she could recline comfortably.  Aunt Merce put her in it every morning, and took her out every evening.  My presence irritated her, so I visited her but seldom.  She said I looked so well, it hurt her, and wished me to keep out of her sight, begged me never to talk loud in the vicinity of her room, my voice was so breezy.  She amused herself in her own strange way.  One of her amusements was to cut off her hair, lock by lock, and cut it short before she was well enough to walk about.  She played on a jewsharp, and on a little fife when her breath permitted, and invented grotesque costumes out of bits of silk and lace.  Temperance was much engaged, at her dictation, in the composition of elaborate dishes, which she rarely ate, but forced Temperance to.  She was more patient with her than any other person; with us she was excessively high-tempered, especially with father.  She could not bear to catch a glimpse of the sea, nor to hear it; if she heard it echoing in the house, she played on her fife, or jewsharp, or asked Aunt Merce to sing some old song.  But she liked the view from the north windows, even when the boughs were bare and the fields barren.  When the grass came, she ordered handfuls to be brought her and put in saucers of water.  With the coming of the blossoms she began to mend.  As for me,