It was indeed Aimée, who entered like an angel of peace. She never looked more childlike or gentle, yet her simplicity now as ever was the simplicity of good sense, and as she came forward she glanced appealingly from the anxious daughter to the distracted mother. “I was in the next room; I could not help hearing, Aunt Alice,” she said. “I have come to thank you for thinking so much of me, and to beg you to let things be as they are.” “My dear child, it is generous of you to desire it,” said Mrs. Berrien, “but I do not feel that I have a right to accept such a sacrifice. I must think of your future.” “Have you not always thought of me?” said the girl, coming forward and in her earnestness kneeling down by her aunt’s chair. “_You_ know, and _I_ know, that nobody else has thought of me at all. And will you not let me repay you in the least for your kindness and your thought? It is such a little thing that I want you to let me do. Fanny is right. What difference does it make whether two or three people believe that I was going to elope with Mr. Kyrle? It can not hurt _me_; but if it were known of _her_ it would hurt her very much. I saw Mr. Meredith this morning, and I am certain that he would never forgive her if he learned the truth now. It is too late. You can make things worse, Aunt Alice, but you can not make them any better now.” Mrs. Berrien gave a little gasp. It was true, all that the simple, quiet voice said. Things might easily be made worse, but it was too late to make them better. She perceived this, and was not sorry to perceive it, even while despising herself for being convinced. But what could she do, with Fanny’s imploring eyes on one side, and on the other Aimée’s resolution? “I ought not to yield,” she said. “Whether things were made better or worse, the truth should be told.” “Oh, no; if the truth would do harm, instead of good, why should you tell it _now_?” said Aimée, with guileless casuistry. “I wanted Fanny to tell Mr. Meredith at first, but she would not, and now it is too late. You must let things be, dear Aunt Alice. Promise me that you will let them be.” The insistent voice and eyes carried their point. Mrs. Berrien hesitated a moment longer, then meekly yielded. “I am wrong, I know I am wrong,” she said, “but I can not withstand you both. Aimée, I shall never forgive myself if this throws any shadow of trouble on your life. Remember, if it ever does, and you wish the truth known, call upon me and I will tell it.” Aimée shook her head, smiling. “I am not afraid that the occasion will ever come,” she said. “I am too glad to be able to do something for you, who have done so much for me.” IX.