Page:Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery.pdf/341

 the heartbreaking moments of the true artist who discovers that

Much of her “old stuff” she burned; even the was reduced to ashes. But the little pile of manuscripts in the mantel cupboard of the lookout was growing steadily larger. Emily kept her scribblings there now; the sofa shelf in the garret was desecrated; and, besides, she felt somehow that Aunt Elizabeth would never meddle with her “private papers” again, no matter where they were kept. She did not go now to the garret to read or write or dream; her own dear lookout was the best place for that. She loved that quaint, little old room intensely; it was almost like a living thing to her—a sharer in gladness—a comforter in sorrow.

Ilse was growing, too, blossoming out into strange beauty and brilliance, knowing no law but her own pleasure, recognizing no authority but her own whim. Aunt Laura worried over her.

“She will be a woman so soon—and will look after her? Allan won’t.”

“I’ve no patience with Allan,” said Aunt Elizabeth grimly. “He is always ready to hector and advise other people. He’d better look at home. He’ll come over here and order me to do this or that, or to do it, for Emily; but if I say one word to him about Ilse he blows the roof off. The idea of a man turning against his daughter and neglecting her as he has neglected Ilse simply because her mother wasn’t all she ought to be—as if the poor child was to blame for .”

“S—s—sh,” said Aunt Laura, as Emily crossed the sitting-room on her way upstairs.

Emily smiled sadly to herself. Aunt Laura needn’t be “s-s-sh’ing.” There was nothing left for her to find out about Ilse’s mother—nothing, except the most important