I have often wondered how my wife's Aunt Sophy came to be so fond of me from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Up to the time that she visited us at Waydean we had met only casually, yet at the end of that short visit we parted the warmest friends; indeed, she embraced me with motherly affection and implored me to take good care of myself and not work too hard. What, she suggested with tender solicitude, would Marion and dear little Paul do without me if I shortened my life by overwork? I was deeply affected by her thoughtfulness; my eyes glistened with emotion as I promised to be careful, for the mental picture of my family sorrowing over my worn-out frame made me realize what a loss I would be. But whatever her good opinion was based upon, force of [Pg 169]circumstances tended to confirm it, for she found many details of our domestic economies that coincided with her ideas of good management, and never failed to attribute to me more than my proper share of credit for the same. It was impossible for me to advance an opinion on any subject without her enthusiastic approval, but whether she approved of the ideas because they were mine, or liked me because of them, I could not determine. Another thing that made her visit enjoyable was Marion's flattering desire to show me up in the best possible light. I was surprised to find that I could work through my repertory of entertaining stories, and yet have my wife join in Aunt Sophy's appreciative laugh with the zest of a first hearing; and whenever Aunt Sophy nodded to her in confidential admiration of my cleverness she would respond with a most charming flush of gratified pride. Not only that, but I have heard her, on occasions when I was supposed to be absorbed in my writing in the next room, allude to my admirable qualities in an artfully casual way; even stating, when the [Pg 170]conversation turned on mining stocks, that she was thankful to say that Henry couldn't be induced to put a dollar into any such scheme!

But nothing I had said or done impressed Aunt Sophy as favorably as Marion's version of my opinion on second marriages. During the two months she spent with us at Waydean before her marriage I was often embarrassed by her expressions of gratitude to me for being instrumental in helping her to make up her mind. No one, she said repeatedly, had made her see her duty as clearly as I, and no one else could have said the same things (at this point she always paused to take off her glasses and wipe her eyes) in such beautiful and sympathetic language; young people so often thought that older persons had no right to marry. Nor could I disclaim the sentiments attributed to me when I saw what a comfort they were to the dear old lady.

She was very happy in her preparations, but to me there was something pathetic in her happiness, for I could not help thinking of poor Uncle Philip and wondering if she[Pg 171] did too, but as far as I could find out I was the only person in the house who became a prey to saddening reflections. This perplexed me to such an extent that sometimes I was distracted by the fear that I, too, might be forgotten—a maddening conclusion, but logically unassailable. At such times I would hesitatingly ask Marion if she were sure Uncle Philip was forgotten, but she would only reply, "Tut!" or "Stop that!" in a vicious suppressed whisper. This was unsatisfying, but of course Marion did not understand my need of sympathy, and her mind was not in a favorable condition to consider questions relating to psychical research. I had seen her with Mrs. Taylor in the height of her rag-carpeting fever, but her delight in that was slight compared with the bliss of helping to plan Aunt Sophy's trousseau, and I soon realized that it was not a time when she would be likely to concern herself about either my present or future state.

But after the anniversary of our wedding day I determined that, as far as I was concerned, Uncle Philip might remain buried[Pg 172] in oblivion; if he intruded himself into my thoughts I drove him forth again with contumely. Only thus could I preserve my self-respect, and at the same time feel that I was at all worthy to partake of the full measure of Aunt Sophy's generous affection. The feeling of sympathy that I had cherished for her deceased husband, and the half-reproachful tolerance of her projected second marriage, suddenly left me, and I not only transferred my sympathy to Mr. Fairman, but I began to hate the memory of Uncle Philip. I might not have gone as far as that if he had not persisted in haunting me after it had become impossible to harbor him without being disloyal to Aunt Sophy, but my conscience became clear when my change of sentiment could no longer be doubted. Had I still felt any mental reservation I could not have accepted her more than generous gift of a cheque for five thousand dollars which she insisted upon giving to each of us on the morning of our wedding anniversary, nor could we have refused without hurting her feelings.

"If you say another word," she declared,[Pg 173] in response to our protests, "I'll be offended. It's a queer thing, indeed, if I'm not to be allowed to do what I like with my own money! You both know perfectly well that my future is provided for, and I'd rather have the pleasure of seeing you spend it now than put it away for you until after I'm gone, when you mightn't need it so much. You don't need it now? Of course not. Well then, you, Henry, if you can't think of anything else, might spend yours at the races; Marion can give a real nice ball with hers, if she wants to. Remember, I'd like each of you to spend your money without consulting the other, so that you'll feel perfectly free to use it in any way. Put it away for Paul? Not a bit of it. I'll provide for Paul—the dear little old-fashioned pet! Do you know, he came to me yesterday with that solemn expression of his, and said, 'Auntie, I love you far more than if father had killed all my chickens for you to——'"

"Oh, Auntie," interrupted Marion, with forced gayety, "I've intended for ever so long to tell you about——"

[Pg 174]

I cannot bear anyone else to confess my sins, and just as the rapidly ascending pitch of Marion's voice indicated the approach of the climax I recovered my presence of mind and drowned her announcement with a loud laugh. "Awfully good joke!" I exclaimed. "Last year Paul raised such a hullabaloo about eating his that I—ha, ha, ha!—had to buy all we used......at the market!"

I had expected her to be astonished, perhaps shocked; evidently she wasn't. My laugh stopped short as I saw her nod in knowing assent and smile complacently.

"Auntie," cried Marion—"you knew!"

"Well," she admitted, "I won't say I knew exactly, but I'll tell you how it happened. Perhaps you remember my saying last summer that Henry sometimes reminded me of your Uncle Philip?"

"Yes, you often said that he had uncle's smile and tone of voice."

"And then," she continued, "I noticed that it was always when I spoke about the chickens being so nice that I saw the resemblance, and I remembered that Philip, when he raised fancy fowls, used to bring[Pg 175] me chickens every time he came from the farm, and I never suspected that he bought them at the market until one day we had a pair for dinner that couldn't have been less than ten years old."

"I—thought it—would spoil—your appetite if you knew," I began penitently.

Aunt Sophy laug............