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S. Anna never knew whither it had led her— sometimes she had fears. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. She was, by certain signs, charged with anger, but she saw upon the faces of these two young fools the look of angels and an ineffable kindness breathed upon her withered heart. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. Two-and-twenty! I can’t imagine what your parents can be thinking about to let you get into these scrapes. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. “I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. The twenty pounds burned with avidity.
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