plays—I won’t take part in any more—but you can see I must do it tonight.”
“Oh, my dear Em’ly, I don’t think you are quite as indispensable as all that.”
Certainly Aunt Ruth was very maddening. How dis- agreeable the word “dear” could be! Still was Emily patient.
“I really am—tonight. You see, they couldn’t get a substitute at the last moment. Miss Aylmer would never forgive me.”
“Do you care more about Miss Aylmer’s forgiveness than God’s?” demanded Aunt Ruth with the air of one stating a decisive position.
“Yes—than your God’s,” muttered Emily, unable to keep her patience under such insensate questions.
“Have you no respect for your forefathers?” was Aunt Ruth’s next relevant query. “Why, if they knew a descendant of theirs was play-acting they would turn over in their graves!”
Emily favoured Aunt Ruth with a sample of the Murray look.
“It would be excellent exercise for them. I am going to take my part in the play tonight, Aunt Ruth.”
Emily spoke quietly, looking down from her young height with resolute eyes. Aunt Ruth felt a nasty sense of helplessness: there was no lock to Emily’s door—and she couldn’t detain her by physical force.
“If you go, you needn’t come back here tonight,” she said, pale with rage. “This house is locked at nine o’clock.”’
“If I don’t come back here tonight, I won’t come at all.” Emily was too angry over Aunt Ruth’s unreason- able attitude to care for consequences. “If you lock me out I’ll go back to New Moon. They know all about the play there—even Aunt Elizabeth was willing for me to take part.”
She caught up her coat and jammed the little red-feather hat, which Uncle Oliver’s wife had given her at
