Her hands trembled so much that she was obliged to give up any pretence of holding her cup.

It chattered against its saucer.
"When did you write ?" she asked at last.
"About three weeks ago." Aunt Mary seemed to make a mental calculation.
"It is my doing.

I wrote a month ago," gasped Aunt Aggie.

"Algernon, you must not take the credit of it.

I waited till you and Mary had decided not to write--you know, Mary, you told Magdalen you would not--and then--and then--I could not stand by and see that dear child's happiness slip away for want of one bold word, one brave friend to say for her what she could not say for herself,--I have seen so many lives wrecked for want of a sympathetic hand to draw two severed hearts together,--that I wrote.