When Lucy, radiant in her own happiness, entered her aunt's room, she was surprised to find that all Ellen's recent anger had apparently vanished, and that she had dropped into a lethargic mood from which it was difficult to rouse her. It was not so much that the elder woman was out of temper--that was to be expected--as that she seemed to be turning over in her mind some problem which was either unsolved or unpleasant, and which knitted her brow into a web of wrinkles, forcing her lips together with an ominous curl. Lucy, who stood at the table arranging a vase of freshly gathered pansies, furtively studied the invalid's sullen reverie. "How are you feeling to-day, Aunt Ellen?" she at last inquired with courageous effort. "No different." "Melvina said she was afraid you did not have a comfortable night." The blue eyes flashed a suspicious glance of inquiry over the questioner's countenance, then closed wearily. "I didn't," was all she said. "I am sorry to hear that." The regret was uttered with gentle sincerity. In an existence cloudless as her own, magnanimousness required little effort. Moreover, Lucy was forgiving by nature; and had she not been, the helplessness and friendlessness of the lonely soul before her would have presented a powerful plea for pity. Ellen did not respond to the words. "What was the trouble?" went on Lucy, after waiting a suitable length of time and sensing that no answer was to be forthcoming. "Were you in pain?" At the interrogation a flame of hatred leaped into the woman's face, flickered there, and then died down, leaving it cold and hard as marble. "I got to thinkin'," she returned briefly. "I hope what I said did not worry you, Aunt Ellen." "It did last night; but it don't now," responded Ellen, with a disagreeable laugh. "That's good. I should be sorry to have been the cause of your lying here fretting." "I ain't doin' no frettin' now," repeated Ellen. Then, changing a subject both seemed to regard as a delicate one, she asked in a more natural tone: "What were you plannin' to do this mornin'?" "Oh, just the regular things," Lucy said cordially, glad to be once more on safer ground. "Why?" "'Cause I'm possessed of a hankerin' for some raspberries," said Ellen. "I like 'em, an' I ain't had any for a long time. Somehow it seems as if they'd taste awful good." Lucy's face lighted. "Why, I'd be glad to try and get some for you, Aunt Ellen," she cried. "You know I'd love to get anything you wanted if I could. I'm so pleased that you mentioned it." Ellen twisted her head on the pillow and began outlining the figures on the counterpane with her long, misshapen finger. "I s'pose you couldn't find enough for a shortcake, could you?" she ventured skeptically. "I don't know but I could. At least, I could try. Of course it's late in the season for them." The lean finger continued to follow the flowered design of the bedcovering.