"They'll be having plenty of cake for Sally's wedding," Aunt Catherine said, out of her thoughts of Hildegarde.
"Not like this." In some things Aunt Olivia was dogmatic. This cake recipe had been handed down in her family. She was sure that nothing baked at Round Hill could measure up to it.
Their last letter from their niece had given an account of the spectacular wedding preparations. She had sent samples of Sally's dress and of her own. The old aunts had never heard anything like it. They wished they might see Hildegarde in her bridesmaid's gown. They were sure she would outshine Sally.
"Perhaps she'll be getting married some day," Miss Catherine said, "and we can be there."
"If she marries Crispin, she won't have all that fuss and feathers."
"She won't marry him if Louis has his way."
"I don't know as I blame him—when you think of all his friends can do for her."
They went on beating their eggs and cracking their nuts for the frosting. The cakes were out of the oven now, and the room was rich with fragrance.
"Let's have some for our supper," Aunt Catherine said, "it's all I'll want with a cup of tea."
"We are getting so we eat less and less," her sister told her.
"Well, most old people get that way, don't they?"
They were beginning to call themselves old. It was a sign of disintegration. They needed youth about them and high spirits. They had no initiative when it came to making new interests. In the death of Eliza-
