Aunt Mary Ellen was so pretty, so round, so
small, that she always seemed timid, and did the commonest acts of life
with a gentle grace. "I heard voices," she said, walking into the
sitting-room. "Sadie here?"
The parson had stepped forward, more bent than usual, for he was
peering down into her face.
"Mary Ellen!" he exclaimed.
The little woman looked up at him--very sadly, Isabel thought.
"Yes, William," she answered. But she was untying her bonnet, and she
did not offer to shake hands.
Isabel stood by with downcast eyes, waiting to take her things, and
aunt Mary Ellen looked searchingly up at her as she laid her mittens on
the pile. The girl, without a word, went into the bedroom, and her aunt
followed her.
"Isabel," said she rapidly, "I saw the chest. Have you burnt the
things?"
"No," answered Isabel in wonder. "No."
"Then don't you! don't you touch 'em for the world." She went back into
the sitting-room, and Isabel followed. The candle was guttering, and
aunt Mary Ellen pushed it toward her. "I don't know where the snuffers
are," she said. "Lamp smoke?"
Isabel did not answer, but she lighted the lamp. She had never seen her
aunt so full of decision, so charged with an unfamiliar power.
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