— she felt that she would rather like to write it all out. How could she best describe Aunt Laura’s eyes? They were such beautiful eyes — just to call them “blue” meant nothing — hundreds of people had blue eyes — oh, she had it—”wells of blue” — that was the very thing.

      And then the flash came!

      It was the first time since the dreadful night when Ellen had met her on the doorstep. She had thought it could never come again — and now in this most unlikely place and time it had come — she had seen, with other eyes than those of sense, the wonderful world behind the veil. Courage and hope flooded her cold little soul like a wave of rosy light. She lifted her head and looked about her undauntedly—”brazenly” Aunt Ruth afterwards declared.

      “Yes, she would write them all out in the account-book — describe every last one of them — sweet Aunt Laura, nice Cousin Jimmy, grim old Uncle Wallace, and moon-faced Uncle Oliver, stately Aunt Elizabeth and detestable Aunt Ruth.

      “She’s a delicate-looking child,” said Aunt Eva, suddenly, in her fretful, colourless voice.

      “Well, what else could you expect?” said Aunt Addie, with a sigh that seemed to Emily to hold some dire significance. “She’s too pale — if she had a little colour she wouldn’t be bad-looking.”

      “I don’t know who she looks like,” said Uncle Oliver, staring at Emily.

      “She is not a Murray, that is plain to be seen,” said Aunt Elizabeth, decidedly and disapprovingly.

      “They are talking about me just as if I wasn’t here,” thought Emily, her heart swelling with indignation over the indecency of it.

      “I wouldn’t call her a Starr either,” said Uncle Oliver. “Seems to me she’s more like the Byrds — she’s got her grandmother’s hair and eyes.”

      “She’s got old George Byrd’s nose,” said Aunt Ruth, in a tone that left no doubt as to her opinion of George’s nose.

      “She’s got her father’s forehead,” said Aunt Eva, also disapprovingly.

      “She has her mother’s smile,” said Aunt Laura, but in such a low tone that nobody heard her.

      “And Juliet’s long lashes — hadn’t Juliet very long lashes?” said Aunt Addie.

      Emily had reached the limit of her endurance.

      “You make me feel as if I was made up of scraps and patches!” she burst out indignantly.

      The Murrays stared at her. Perhaps they felt some compunction — for, after all, none of them were ogres and all were human, more or less. Apparently nobody could think of anything to say, but the shocked silence was broken by a chuckle from Cousin Jimmy — a low chuckle, full of mirth and free from malice.

      “That’s right, puss,” he said. “Stand up to them — take your own part.”

      “Jimmy!” said Aunt Ruth.

      Jimmy subsided.

      Aunt Ruth looked at Emily.

      “When I was a little girl,” she said, “I never spoke until I was spoken to.”

      “But if nobody ever spoke until they were spoken to there would be no conversation,” said Emily argumentatively.

      “I never answered back,” Aunt Ruth went on severely. “In those days little girls were trained properly. We were polite and respectful to our elders. We were taught our place and we kept it.”

      “I don’t believe you ever had much fun,” said Emily — and then gasped in horror. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud — she had only meant to think it. But she had such an old habit of thinking aloud to Father.

      “Fun!” said Aunt Ruth, in a shocked tone. “I did not think of fun when I was a little girl.”

      “No, I know,” said Emily gravely. Her voice and manner were perfectly respectful, for she was anxious to atone for her involuntary lapse. Yet Aunt Ruth looked as if she would like to box her ears. This child was pitying her — insulting her by being sorry for her — because of her prim, impeccable childhood. It was unendurable — especially in a Starr. And that abominable Jimmy was chuckling again! Elizabeth should suppress him!

      Fortunately Ellen Greene appeared at this juncture and announced supper.

      “You’ve got to wait,” she whispered to Emily. “There ain’t room for you at the table.”

      Emily was glad. She knew she could not eat a bite under the Murray eyes. Her aunts and uncles filed out stiffly without looking at her — all except Aunt Laura, who turned at the door and blew her a tiny, furtive kiss. Before Emily could respond Ellen Greene had shut the door.

      Emily was left all alone in the room that was filling with twilight shadows. The pride that had sustained her in the presence of the Murrays suddenly failed her and she knew that tears were coming. She went straight to the closed door at the end of the parlour, opened it, and went in. Her father’s coffin stood in the centre of the small room which had been a bedroom. It was heaped with flowers — the Murrays had done the proper thing in that as in all else. The great anchor of white roses Uncle Wallace had brought stood up aggressively on the small table at the head. Emily could not see her father’s face for Aunt Ruth’s heavily-fragrant pillow of white hyacinths lying on the glass, and she dared not move it. But she curled herself up on the floor and laid her cheek against the polished side of the casket. They found her there asleep when they came in after supper. Aunt Laura lifted her up and said,

      “I’m going to take the poor child up to bed — she’s worn right out.”

      Emily opened her eyes and looked drowsily about her.

      “Can I have Mike?” she said.

      “Who is Mike?”

      “My cat — my big grey cat.”

      “A cat!” exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth in a shocked tone. “You must not have a cat in your bedroom!”

      “Why not — for once?” pleaded Laura.

      “Certainly not!” said Aunt Elizabeth. “A cat is a most unwholesome thing in a sleeping compartment. I’m surprised at you, Laura! Take the child up to bed and see that there are plenty of bedclothes. It’s a cold night — but let me hear no more talk of sleeping with cats.”

      “Mike is a clean cat,” said Emily. “He washes himself — every day.”

      “Take her up to bed, Laura!” said Aunt Elizabeth, ignoring Emily.

      Aunt Laura yielded meekly. She carried Emily upstairs, helped her undress, and tucked her into bed. Emily was very sleepy. But before she was wholly asleep she felt something, soft and warm and purry and companionable, snuggling down by her shoulder. Aunt Laura had sneaked down, found Mike and brought him up to her. Aunt Elizabeth never knew and Ellen Greene dared not say a word in protest — for was not Laura a Murray of New Moon?

      A Family Conclave

      Table of Contents

      Emily wakened at daylight the next morning. Through her low, uncurtained window the splendour of the sunrise was coming in, and one faint, white star was still lingering in the crystal-green sky over the Rooster Pine. A fresh sweet wind of lawn was blowing around the eaves. Ellen Greene was sleeping in the big bed and snoring soundly. Except for that the little house was very still. It was the chance for which Emily had waited.

      Very carefully she slipped from her bed, tiptoed across the room and opened the door. Mike uncoiled himself from the mat on the middle of the floor and followed her, rubbing his warm sides against her chilly little ankles. Almost guiltily she crept