THERE were steps again on the stairs, Aunt Olivia this time. It was unusual for Aunt Olivia or Aunt Catherine to climb the stairs when they wanted their niece. They had always called in their high-pitched voices. The extra exertion was a concession, apparently, to the solemnity of the occasion.
"Crispin Harlowe is here," Aunt Olivia announced.
Crispin Harlowe was the boy at the State College who Hildegarde had thought would come when he heard of her bereavement, and now he had come.
"I'll be down in a moment, Aunt Olivia."
Aunt Olivia looked at the little red box and asked, "Did you read the letter?"
"Yes." Hildegarde found it hard to speak of the things that her mother had written. "It was a great surprise," she said at last.
"Catherine and I sometimes thought she might have told you sooner. But we didn't advise. It was her business."
"I am glad she didn't, Aunt Olivia. It wouldn't have done me any good to know I had a father. I couldn't have gone to him while she lived."
"No," said Aunt Olivia, "you couldn't."
