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 splendid, firm-minded, understanding old lady, she welcomed Lydia casually, made her comfortable, and did not allude in any way to the strangeness of her niece’s coming for many days.

Great-aunt Margaret was one of those abrupt, sententious, masterful women, not a little eccentric, who impress one with their high vitality and their capacity to command anything from a dining room to a man-of-war. She was a lady of a sort we seldom see to-day, but that was more prone to show itself in the eighties. She was of the stock of women who had crossed the mountains into the wilderness of Kentucky or of Ohio, hardy, capable, lofty of character. She was a gentlewoman—not of the people; yet she did not look down upon the recent developments of science and of society as might have been expected. She was not conservative, but rather an enthusiast—remaining herself always original, individual. However much she may have approved of innovation, changes, inventions for others, they were not for her—that passed her without touching the hem of her skirt….

“Lydia Canfield,” she said abruptly when, one day, they were seated in the library overlooking the Pare Monceau, “tell me about it.”

Lydia looked up quickly; her hand fluttered to her heart and then dropped to her lap; she lowered her face to hide from her aunt the