She said something about becoming a deaconess
in the Episcopal Church; she spoke of the attractions in the life of a
trained nurse; mentioned settlement work; and asked me what I thought
of Elizabeth Frye, Dorothea Dix, and Clara Barton.
"This is one advantage that Catholics have over us," she observed,
dreamily: "one could go into a nunnery; then one would be quite sure
there would be no men to let loose the consequences of their natures
and conduct upon a woman's whole existence."
"These two downstairs have waited a good while," I returned,
carelessly. "One of them is a married man and is used to it. But the
other is not."
"Very well," said Aunt Elizabeth, with what (it occurred to me) was a
smile of forced dejection. "To please you, Maria, I will go down."
If Aunt Elizabeth's dejection were assumed, mine was not. I have been
in the lowest possible spirits since my unlucky discovery. Anything and
everything had occurred to me except that she and that boy could
quarrel. I had fancied him shadowing Mrs. Chataway for the slightest
sign of his charmer. I don't know that I should have been surprised to
see him curled up, like a dog, asleep on the door-steps. At the present
moment I have no more means of finding the wetched lad than I had in
Eastridge; not so much, for doubtless Peggy has his prehistoric
addresses.
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