aërial bath of the spring night and tingling from head to foot with the wild, strange, sweet life of the spirit, she came to Aunt Ruth’s when the faint, purplish hills east of the harbour were growing clear under a whitening sky. She had expected to find the door still locked; but the knob turned as she tried it and she went in.
Aunt Ruth was up and was lighting the kitchen fire.
On the way from New Moon Emily had thought over a dozen different ways of saying what she meant to say—and now she used not one of them. At the last moment an impish inspiration came to her. Before Aunt Ruth could—or would—speak Emily said,
“Aunt Ruth, I’ve come back to tell you that I forgive you, but that this must not happen again.”
To tell the truth, Mistress Ruth Dutton was considerably relieved that Emily had come back. She had been afraid of Elizabeth and Laura—Murray family rows were bitter things—and truly a little afraid of the results to Emily herself if she had really gone to New Moon in those thin shoes and that insufficient coat. For Ruth Dutton was not a fiend—only a rather stupid, stubborn little barnyard fowl trying to train up a skylark. She was honestly afraid that Emily might catch a cold and go into consumption. And if Emily took it into her head not to come back to Shrewsbury—well, that would “make talk” and Ruth Dutton hated “talk” when she or her doings was the subject. So, all things considered, she decided to ignore the impertinence of Emily’s greeting.
“Did you spend the night on the streets?” she asked grimly.
“Oh, dear no—I went out to New Moon—had a chat with Cousin Jimmy and some lunch—then walked back.”
“Did Elizabeth see you? Or Laura?”
“No. They were asleep.”
Mrs. Dutton reflected that this was just as well.
“Well,” she said coldly, “you have been guilty of great ingratitude, Em’ly, but I’ll forgive you this time”—then stopped abruptly. Hadn’t that been said already this
