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“I want to explain what happened, Aunt Elizabeth.”

“I think we have heard enough about it,” said Aunt Elizabeth icily—all the more icily because of a certain bitter disappointment that was filling her soul. She had been gradually becoming very fond and proud of Emily, in her reserved, undemonstrative Murray way: to find her capable of such conduct as this was a terrible blow to Aunt Elizabeth. Her very pain made her the more merciless.

“No, that won’t do now, Aunt Elizabeth,” said Emily quietly. “I’m too old to be treated like that. You must hear my side of the story.”

The Murray look was on her face—the look Elizabeth knew and remembered so well of old. She wavered.

“You had your chance to explain last night,” snapped Aunt Ruth, “and you wouldn’t do it.”

“Because I was hurt and angry over your thinking the worst of me,” said Emily. “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“T would have believed you if you had told the truth,” said Aunt Ruth. “The reason you wouldn’t explain last night was because you couldn’t think up an excuse for your conduct on the spur of the moment. You've had time to invent something since, I suppose.”

“Did you ever know Emily to tell a lie?” demanded Cousin Jimmy.

Mrs. Dutton opened her lips to say “Yes.” Then closed them again. Suppose Jimmy should demand a specific instance? She felt sure Emily had told her—fibs—a score of times, but what proof had she of it?

“Did you?” persisted that abominable Jimmy.

“I am not going to be catechised by you.” Aunt Ruth turned her back on him. “Elizabeth, I’ve always told you that girl was deep and sly, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” admitted poor Elizabeth, rather thankful that there need be no indecision on that point. Ruth had certainly told her so times out of number.

“And doesn’t this show I was right?”