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 of her features. In a moment she replied so faintly her voice scarcely reached Miss Canfield’s ears. “Not now…. Not now….”

“You’ve got to talk pretty soon. It’s bound to come out of you. Things can’t be kept pent up…. Just start in—like that!”

Still Lydia could not bring herself to speak.

“The usual thing, I suppose—man!” said Miss Canfield, clipping her words.

“It’s— Oh, it’s not what you think… no fault of his. He was good—good…. I—” Lydia caught herself, raised her eyes, and Aunt Margaret saw in them startled surprise. With a little gasp Lydia continued, “I love him—even now.”

“H’m—most do,” said Aunt Margaret, “whether they deserve it or not.”

Then the story came, came easily, rapidly, pell-mell as the relief of expression, of putting her woes into words, overcame Lydia—it came in a torrent of words, sobs, exclamations, which jostled, tumbled, hurried each other to be out. It was as if the walls of some reservoir had collapsed, suddenly releasing a flood which nothing could stop or turn aside. Aunt Margaret listened unemotionally, now and again tapping the arm of her chair with a thimble.

“So I couldn’t stay,” Lydia finished. “I couldn’t bear to see him again… I couldn’t