I was almost too shocked to answer, but my first words were to reproach her for keeping me in ignorance. “You must not blame me, Merle,” she replied, gently. “I wanted you dreadfully; I felt quite sore with the longing to see you, but I knew you could not come to me. Mrs. Morton was in Scotland; you were in sole charge of those children. Unless things grew worse I knew I had no right to summon you. Thank God I was spared that necessity; the danger only lasted forty-eight hours; after that he only required all the nursing I could give him.” “Aunt Agatha, it was not right; you ought to have told me.” “I thought differently, Merle; I put myself in your place—you could not desert your post, and you would only have grown restless with the longing to come and help me—the same feeling that made you hide your accident from me led me to suppress my trouble. I should only have burthened your kind heart, Merle, and spoiled your present enjoyment. I said to myself, ‘Let the child be happy; she will only fret herself into a fever to help me, and she must do her duty to her employers.’ If Ezra had got worse I must have written; when he grew better I preferred telling you nothing until we met.” “I shall never trust you again,” I burst out, for this reticence wounded me sorely. “How am I to know if things are well with you if you are always keeping me in the dark?” “It will not happen again, Merle; indeed, my dear, I can promise you that it shall never happen. If you had been at Prince’s Gate I should have summoned you at once, but, in your position, how could I ask you to desert your post, Merle, when those who placed you there were hundreds of miles away?” I saw what she meant, and I could not deny that she had kept me in ignorance for my own peace of mind. It was just her unselfishness, for I knew how she must have longed for me; we were so much to each other, we were so sure of mutual sympathy and help. Aunt Agatha cried a little when she saw how hurt I was, and then, of course, I tried to comfort her, and I very soon succeeded. I never could bear to see her unhappy, and I knew it was only her goodness to me. I begged her to tell me about Uncle Keith’s illness, and she soon put me in possession of the salient points. He had worked a little too hard, and then had got wet in a thunderstorm, and a sharp attack of inflammation had been the result. “He considers himself well now,” she continued, “but he is still very weak, and will not be able to resume work for another week or two. His employers have been very kind; they seem to value him highly. Oh! he has been so patient, Merle, it has been quite a privilege to nurse him; not a complaint, not an irritable word. I always knew he was a good man, but illness is such a test of character.” “But you have worn yourself out,” I grumbled; “you do not look well.” But she interrupted me.