She conveyed her wishes through Matilda, as a sort of human telephone. "Matilda," she would say, "will you ask Rosemary to fill the tea-pot with hot water?" And, again: "Matilda, will you tell Rosemary to put out the milk pitcher and to lock the back door?" It was not necessary; however, for Matilda to tell Rosemary. The girl accepted the requests as though they had been given directly--with her head held high and the faintest shadow of an ironical smile upon her face. [Sidenote: Left in the Dark] After supper, while Rosemary was washing the dishes, Grandmother took the lamp. She was half-way to the door when Matilda inquired: "Where are you goin', Ma?" "I'm goin' up to my room, to set and read a spell." "But--but the lamp?" "I need it to read by," Grandmother announced, with considerable asperity, "and you don't need to hunt around for no more lamps, neither. I've got 'em all put away." "But," Matilda objected; "me and Rosemary----." "You and Rosemary! Humph! You can set in the dark or anywhere else you please." With that she slammed the door and was gone. Rosemary came in, after a little, humming to herself with an assumed cheerfulness she was far from feeling. Then she went out into the kitchen and came back with a match. The feeble flicker of it revealed only Aunt Matilda--and no lamp. "Where's Grandmother?" asked Rosemary, in astonishment. "And what has become of the lamp?" "She's gone up to her room and she's took the lamp with her," Matilda laughed, hysterically. [Sidenote: Aunt Matilda's Troubles] Rosemary brought in the candle from the kitchen. As it happened, it was the last candle and was nearly gone, but it would burn for an hour or two. "I'm sorry, Aunt Matilda," said Rosemary, kindly, "if you want to read, or anything----." "I don't," she interrupted. "I'd like to sit and talk a spell. I don't know as we need the candle. If she should happen to come back, she'd be mad. She said she'd put away the lamps, and I reckon she'd have took the candle, too, if she'd thought." "Very well," answered Rosemary, blowing out the candle. "I'm not afraid of the dark." Moreover, it was not the general policy of the household to ruffle Grandmother's temper unnecessarily. "Rosemary," said Aunt Matilda, a little later; "Ma's a hard woman--she always has been." "Yes," the girl agreed, listlessly. "I ain't never said much, but I've had my own troubles. I've tried to bear 'em patiently, but sometimes I ain't been patient--she's always made me feel so ugly." Rosemary said nothing, but she felt a strange softening of her heart toward Aunt Matilda. "I don't know as you'll believe me," the older woman went on after a pause, "but I never knew nothin' about that money." [Sidenote: Pity for Aunt Matilda]