than externals, and twined itself with the innermost fibers of
life, and thought, and action.

"I don't see why we must invite Aunt Jane," said Rachel, with as
much impatience as her soft, throaty voice could express. "Aunt
Jane doesn't like me, and I don't like Aunt Jane."

"I'm sure I don't see why you don't like her," said Mrs. Spencer.
"It's ungrateful of you. She has always been very kind to you."

"She has always been very kind with one hand," smiled Rachel. "I
remember the first time I ever saw Aunt Jane. I was six years
old. She held out to me a small velvet pincushion with beads on
it. And then, because I did not, in my shyness, thank her quite
as promptly as I should have done, she rapped my head with her
bethimbled finger to 'teach me better manners.' It hurt
horribly--I've always had a tender head. And that has been Aunt
Jane's way ever since. When I grew too big for the thimble
treatment she used her tongue instead--and that hurt worse. And
you know, mother, how she used to talk about my engagement. She
is able to spoil the whole atmosphere if she happens to come in a
bad humor. I don't want her."

"She must be invited. People would talk so if she wasn't."

"I don't see why they should. She's only my great-aunt by
marriage. I wouldn't mind in the least if people did talk.
They'll talk anyway--you know that, mother."

"Oh, we must have her," said Mrs. Spencer, with the indifferent