don’t like interruptions—but Ruth will board you for half-price, as her contribution to your up-bringing—Emily, I will not be interrupted! Your Uncle Oliver will pay the other half; your Uncle Wallace will provide your books, and I will see to your clothes. You will, of course, help your Aunt Ruth about the house in every way possible as some return for her kindness. You may go to Shrewsbury for three years on a certain condition.”
What was the condition? Emily, who wanted to dance and sing and laugh through the old parlour as no Murray, not even her mother, had ever ventured to dance and laugh before, constrained herself to sit rigidly on her ottoman and ask herself that question. Behind her suspense she felt that the moment was quite dramatic.
“Three years at Shrewsbury,” Aunt Elizabeth went on, “will do as much for you as three at Queen’s—except, of course, that you don’t get a teacher’s license, which doesn’t matter in your case, as you are not under the necessity of working for your living. But, as I have said, there is a condition.”
Why didn’t Aunt Elizabeth name the condition? Emily felt that the suspense was unendurable. Could it be possible that Aunt Elizabeth was a little afraid to name it? It was not like her to talk for time. Was it so very terrible?
“You must promise,” said Aunt Elizabeth sternly, “that for the three years you are at Shrewsbury you will give up entirely this writing nonsense of yours—entirely, except in so far as school compositions may be required.”
Emily sat very still—and cold. No Shrewsbury on the one hand—on the other no more poems, no more stories and “studies,” no more delightful Jimmy-books of miscellany. She did not take more than one instant to make up her mind.
“I can’t promise that, Aunt Elizabeth,” she said resolutely.
Aunt Elizabeth dropped her knitting in amazement. She had not expected this. She had thought Emily was
