her dress for the letter that had slipped from her lap. “I've had word from a young niece. She's going to study music in Boston.”
“A niece?”
“Well, not really, you know. She calls me 'Aunt,' just as you and the Henshaw boys do. But I really am related to her, for her mother and I are third cousins, while it was my husband who was distantly related to the Henshaw family.”
“What's her name?”
“'Mary Jane Arkwright.' Where is that letter?”
“Here it is, on the floor,” reported Billy. “Were you going to read it to me?” she asked, as she picked it up.
“Yes—if you don't mind.”
“I'd love to hear it.”
“Then I'll read it. It—it rather annoys me in some ways. I thought the whole family understood that I wasn't living by myself any longer—that I was living with you. I'm sure I thought I wrote them that, long ago. But this sounds almost as if they didn't understand it—at least, as if this girl didn't.”
“How old is she?”
“I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston to study music, alone—singing, I think she said.”
“You don't remember her, then?”
Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from its envelope.
“No—but that isn't strange. They live West. I haven't seen any of them for years. I know there are several children—and I suppose I've been told their names. I know there's a boy—the eldest, I think—who is quite a singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't seem to remember a 'Mary Jane.'”
“Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself,” suggested Billy, dropping her chin into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling herself to listen.
“Very well,” sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and
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