She was writing letters. Every now and then she took up the Bible and picked out a text and wrote it down. She wrote very fast, and as she finished each sheet she hid it under the bed-clothes, and made a sign to show that what she was doing was a secret. "Love God and you'll be happy. Love God and you'll be happy," she said. Her eyes pointed at you. They looked wise and solemn and excited. A wide flat piece of counterpane was left over from Aunt Charlotte. Mary climbed up and sat in it with her back against the foot-rail and looked at her. Looking at Aunt Charlotte made you think of being born. "Aunt Charlotte, do _you_ know what being born is?" Aunt Charlotte looked up under her eyebrows, and hid another sheet of paper. "What's put that in your head all of a sudden?" "It's because of my babies. Catty says I couldn't have thirteen all under three years old. But I could, couldn't I?" "I'm afraid I don't think you could," Aunt Charlotte said. "Why not? Catty _won't_ say why." Aunt Charlotte shook her head, but she was smiling and looking wiser and more solemn than ever. "You mustn't ask too many questions," she said. "But you haven't told me what being born is. I know it's got something to do with the Virgin Mary." Aunt Charlotte said, "Sh-sh-sh! You mustn't say that. Nice little girls don't think about those things." Her tilted eyes had turned down and her mouth had stopped smiling. So you knew that being born was not frightening. It had something to do with the things you didn't talk about. And ye--how could it? There was the Virgin Mary. "Aunt Charlotte, don't you _wish_ you had a baby?" Aunt Charlotte looked frightened, suddenly, and began to cry. "You mustn't say it, Mary, you mustn't say it. Don't tell them you said it. They'll think I've been talking about the babies. The little babies. Don't tell them. Promise me you won't tell." II. "Aunt Lavvy--I wish I knew what you thought about Jehovah?" When Aunt Lavvy stayed with you Mamma made you promise not to ask her about her opinions. But sometimes you forgot. Aunt Lavvy looked more than ever as if she was by herself in a quiet empty room, thinking of something that wasn't there. You couldn't help feeling that she knew things. Mamma said she had always been the clever one, just as Aunt Charlotte had always been the queer one; but Aunt Bella said she was no better than an unbeliever, because she was a Unitarian at heart. "Why Jehovah in particular?" Aunt Lavvy was like Uncle Victor; she listened politely when you talked to her, as if you were saying something interesting. "Because he's the one you've got to believe in. Do you really think he is so very good?" "I don't think anything. I don't know anything, except that God is love." "Jehovah wasn't." "Jehovah--" Aunt Lavvy stopped herself. "I mustn't talk to you about it--because I promised your mother I wouldn't."