greater force that Mrs. Penniman had enjoyed a whole year of her lover's society, and it was not a pleasure to her to hear her aunt explain and interpret the young man, speaking of him as if her own knowledge of him were supreme. It was not that Catherine was jealous; but her sense of Mrs. Penniman's innocent falsity, which had lain dormant, began to haunt her again, and she was glad that she was safely at home. With this, however, it was a blessing to be able to talk of Morris, to sound his name, to be with a person who was not unjust to him.
"You have been very kind to him," said Catherine. "He has written me that, often. I shall never forget that, Aunt Lavinia."
"I have done what I could; it has been very little. To let him come and talk to me, and give him his cup of tea that was all. Your Aunt Almond thought it was too much, and used to scold me terribly; but she promised me, at least, not to betray me."
"To betray you?"
"Not to tell your father. He used to sit in your father's study!" said Mrs. Penniman, with a little laugh.
