“Oh, dear!” cried Katherine, “I’m so sorry!” She looked round upon them all, and saw quite clearly that they were surprised at her. Again behind Mrs. Trenchard’s eyes there hovered that suspicion of anxiety. “What did I do? What did I say? Aunt Aggie’s so funny.” Then, as still they did not answer, she turned round upon them: “_Have_ I been cross and tiresome lately? _Have_ you all noticed it? Tell me.” Aunt Betty said, “No, dear, of course not.” Millie said, “What _does_ it matter what Aunt Aggie says?” Mrs. Trenchard said, “There’s another of Aggie’s green threads. Under your chair, Millie dear. I’d better go up and see whether she wants anything.” But Katherine rose and, standing for an instant with a little half-smile, half-frown, surveying them, moved then slowly away from them down the room. “No. I’ll go, Mother, and apologise. I suppose I was horrid.” She left them. She went up through the dark passages slowly, meditatively. She waited for a moment outside her aunt’s door and then knocked, heard then her aunt’s voice, “Come in!”—in tones that showed that she had been expecting some ambassador. Katherine stood by the door, then moved forward, put her arms about Aunt Aggie and kissed her. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid that I hurt you. You know that I didn’t mean to.” Upon Aunt Aggie’s dried cheeks there hovered a tiny cold and glassy tear. She drew back from Katherine’s embrace, then with a strange, almost feverish movement caught Katherine’s hand. “It wasn’t, my dear, that you hurt me. I expect I’m too sensitive—that has always been my misfortune. But I felt” (another glassy tear now upon the other cheek) “that you and Millie are finding me tiresome now.” “Aunt Aggie! Of _course_ not!” “I wish to be of some use—it is my continual prayer—some use to someone—and you make me feel—but of course you are young and impatient—that I’d be better perhaps out of the way.” Katherine answered her very gravely: “If I’ve ever made you feel that for a moment, Aunt Aggie, there’s nothing too bad for me. But how can you say such a thing? Aren’t you a little unjust?” The two tears had disappeared. “I daresay I am, my dear, I daresay I am—or seem so to you. Old people often do to young ones. But I’m not unjust, I think, in fancying that you yourself have changed lately. I made you angry when I said that just now, but I felt it my duty—” Katherine was silent. Aunt Aggie watched her with bright, inquisitive eyes, from which tears were now very far away. “Well, we won’t say any more, dear. My fault is, perhaps, that I am too anxious to do things for others, and so may seem to you young ones interfering. I don’t know, I’m sure. It has always been my way. I’m glad indeed when you tell me that nothing is the matter. To my old eyes it seems that ever since Mr. Mark stayed here the house has not been the same. You have not been the same.”