married. But they had been younger then and had had more in their lives. They had felt it reasonable that the child should not care to stay with them, but when in a house where there had been four there were left only two, a silence had fallen and a shadow. They had found themselves listening for the sound of Elizabeth's rich voice or of Hildegarde's light laughter. When they ate in the kitchen, there had been the thought of Elizabeth's insistence upon the dining-room as the place for their meals. "We must keep up to more formal standards for Hildegarde's sake."
They had cared little for formalities. They had, indeed, thought them foolish. Yet they had yielded gradually to the charm of the atmosphere which Elizabeth had created when she came back to them—although they had set themselves in some ways against her.
They had made up their minds not to set themselves against Hildegarde. If the child could restore something of what they had lost, they would let her do it. They were, indeed, hungry for the brightness she would bring.
It was a bitter day outside—one of the ragged, blustery twilights with slate-color and black in the sky. The sun had set, leaving a hard gleam on the horizon like burnished metal, crisscrossed with the bare branches of the tree.
Within, the old kitchen had a still radiance and was fragrant with the smell of hot food. The two aunts had wanted the best for Crispin, and there was chicken-pie and hot gingerbread. They were a bit shy about entertaining him. All young people were, they thought,
