Rosemary had not thought of that. It was only that her beautiful secret was too sacred to put into words. "They'll have to know some time," she temporised. "Yes, of course, but not until the last minute. The day we're to be married, you can just put on your hat and say: 'Grandmother, and Aunty, I'm going out now, to be married to Alden Marsh. I shan't be back, so good-bye." She laughed, but none the less the idea filled her with consternation. "What will they say!" she exclaimed. "It doesn't matter what they say, as long as you're not there to hear it." "Clothes," she said, half to herself. "I can't be married in brown alpaca, can I?" [Sidenote: The Difference] "I don't know why not. We'll take the fatal step as early as possible in the morning, catch the first train to town, you can shop all the afternoon to your heart's content, and be dressed like a fine lady in time for dinner in the evening." "Grandmother was married in brown alpaca," she continued, irrelevantly, "and Aunt Matilda wore it the night the minister came to call." "Did he never come again?" "No. Do you think it could have been the alpaca?" "I'm sure it wasn't. Aunt Matilda was foreordained to be an old maid." "She won't allow anyone to speak of her as an old maid. She says she's a spinster." "What's the difference?" "I think," returned Rosemary, pensively, "that an old maid is a woman who never could have married and a spinster is merely one who hasn't." "Is it a question of opportunity?" "I believe so." "Then you're wrong, because some of the worst old maids I've ever known have been married women. I've seen men, too, who deserve the title." "Poor Aunt Matilda," Rosemary sighed; "I'm sorry for her." "Why?" [Sidenote: Alden's Mother] "Because she hasn't anyone to love her--because she hasn't you. I'm sorry for every other woman in the world," she concluded, generously, "because I have you all to myself." "Sweet," he answered, possessing himself of her hand, "don't forget that you must divide me with mother." "I won't. Will she care, do you think, because--" Her voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur. "Of course not. She's glad. I told her this morning." "Oh!" cried Rosemary, suddenly tremulous and afraid. "What did she say?" "She was surprised at first." Alden carefully refrained from saying how much his mother had been surprised and how long it had been before she found herself equal to the occasion. "Yes--and then?" "Then she said she was glad; that she wanted me to be happy. She told me that she had always liked you and that the house wouldn't be so lonely after you came to live with us. Then she asked me to bring you to see her, as soon as you were ready to come." The full tide overflowed in the girl's heart. She yearned toward Mrs. Marsh with worship, adoration, love. The mother-hunger made her faint with longing for a woman's arms around her, for a woman's tears of joy to mingle with her own. [Sidenote: Madame's Welcome]