Page:Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery.pdf/336

 For the first time in her life it occurred to Elizabeth Murray to wonder if she had done rightly. For the first time in her life she felt ashamed; and the shame made her furious. It was intolerable that should be made to feel ashamed.

For the moment they faced each other, not as aunt and niece, not as child and adult, but as two human beings each with hatred for the other in her heart—Elizabeth Murray, tall and austere and thin-lipped; Emily Starr, white of face, her eyes pools of black flame, her trembling arms hugging her letters.

“So is your gratitude,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “You were a penniless orphan—I took you to my home—I have given you shelter and food and education and kindness—and is my thanks.”

As yet Emily’s tempest of anger and resentment prevented her from feeling the sting of this.

“You did not to take me,” she said. “You made me draw lots and you took me because the lot fell to you. You knew some of you had to take me because you were the proud Murrays and couldn’t let a relation go to an orphan asylum. Aunt Laura loves me now but you don’t. So why should I love you?”

“Ungrateful, thankless child!”

“I’m thankless. I’ve tried to be good—I’ve tried to obey you and please you—I do all the chores I can to help pay for my keep. And you had to read my letters to Father.”

“They are disgraceful letters—and must be destroyed,” said Aunt Elizabeth.

“No,” Emily clasped them tighter. “I’d sooner burn myself. You shall not have them, Aunt Elizabeth.”

She felt her brows drawing together—she felt the Murray look on her face—she knew she was conquering.

Elizabeth Murray turned paler, if that were possible.