When Honora returned, Aunt Mary had donned her apron, and was industriously aiding Mary Ann to wash the dishes and maintain the customary high polish on her husband’s share of the Leffingwell silver which, standing on the side table, shot hither and thither rays of green light that filtered through the shutters into the darkened room.  The child partook of Aunt Mary’s pride in that silver, made for a Kentucky great-grandfather Leffingwell by a famous Philadelphia silversmith three-quarters of a century before.  Honora sighed.

“What’s the matter, Honora?” asked Aunt Mary, without pausing in her vigorous rubbing.

“The Leffingwells used to be great once upon a time, didn’t they, Aunt Mary?”

“Your Uncle Tom,” answered Aunt Mary, quietly, “is the greatest man I know, child.”

“And my father must have been a great man, too,” cried Honora, “to have been a consul and drive coaches.”

Aunt Mary was silent.  She was not a person who spoke easily on difficult subjects.

“Why don’t you ever talk to me about my father, Aunt Mary?  Uncle Tom does.”

“I didn’t know your father, Honora.”

“But you have seen him?”

“Yes,” said Aunt Mary, dipping her cloth into the whiting; “I saw him at my wedding.  But he was very, young.”

“What was he like?” Honora demanded.  “He was very handsome, wasn’t he?”

’Yes, child.”

“And he had ambition, didn’t he, Aunt Mary?”

Aunt Mary paused.  Her eyes were troubled as she looked at Honora, whose head was thrown back.

“What kind of ambition do you mean, Honora?”

“Oh,” cried Honora, “to be great and rich and powerful, and to be somebody.”

“Who has been putting such things in your head, my dear?”

“No one, Aunt Mary.  Only, if I were a man, I shouldn’t rest until I became great.”

Alas, that Aunt Mary, with all her will, should have such limited powers of expression!  She resumed her scrubbing of the silver before she spoke.

“To do one’s duty, to accept cheerfully and like a Christian the responsibilities and burdens of life, is the highest form of greatness, my child.  Your Uncle Tom has had many things to trouble him; he has always worked for others, and not for himself.  And he is respected and loved by all who know him.”

“Yes, I know, Aunt Mary.  But—­”

“But what, Honora?”

“Then why isn’t he rich, as my father was?”

“Your father wasn’t rich, my dear,” said Aunt Mary, sadly.

“Why, Aunt Mary!” Honora exclaimed, “he lived in a beautiful house, and owned horses.  Isn’t that being rich?”

Poor Aunt Mary!

“Honora,” she answered, “there are some things you are too young to understand.  But try to remember, my dear, that happiness doesn’t consist in being rich.”

“But I have often heard you say that you wished you were rich, Aunt Mary, and had nice things, and a picture gallery like Mr. Dwyer.”