But now you think your duty is to marry me, don't you ?" Rose laughed, and there was something angelic and innocent about that laugh of the young girl.

Horace kissed her again, then both started.
"She is talking to herself in there," whispered Rose.

"Horace, what do you suppose it is about?
Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worrying horribly about something.

What do you think it is ?" "I don't know, darling," replied Horace, soberly.
They both heard that lamentable murmur of a voice in the other room, but the doors were closed and not a word could be understood.
Sylvia was sewing rapidly, setting the most delicate and dainty stitches, and all the time she was talking carrying on a horrible argument, as if against some invisible dissenter.
"Ain't I doing everything I can ?" demanded Sylvia.

"Ain't I, I'd like to know?
Ain't I bought everything I could for her?
Ain't I making her wedding-clothes by hand, when my eyes are hurting me all the time?
Ain't I set myself aside and given her up, when God knows I love her better than if she was my own child?
Ain't I doing everything?
What call have I to blame myself?
Only to-day I've bought a lot of silver for her, and I'm going to buy a lot more.