Part 105

She laughed that quaint, quiet little laugh, which suits her. "That's different. They're engaged to each other--all the rest of them. I'm engaged--by you."

"Don't let that engagement keep you from amusing yourself," I said. "The bargain's off now. I hired an aunt to further my interests. Every one else's have been furthered except mine."

"That's not my fault, is it?"

"I know it isn't," I assured her. "Don't think I'm finding fault with you. On the contrary, you're really a marvelous being. But Othello's occupation's gone."

"Yes," said she. "For both of us. I retire from aunthood, you retire from nephewhood, with mutual respect, Is that it?"

"I suppose so," I gloomily replied. "Yet I'm loth to part with you, somehow. You and Tibe are all I have left in the world. But now I must lose you both."

"You don't need an aunt," she said.

"No, but I need some one; I don't know exactly who. Robert has snatched one of my loves, Rudolph the other. What am I to do?"

"Come to the house and into my sitting-room, and let's talk it over," she suggested invitingly.

I obeyed.

There were flowers in her sitting-room. There always are. The scent of late roses was sad, yet soothing.

"Excuse me a minute. I'm going into the next room to make myself pretty before we begin our talk; but I won't be long, and Tibe shall keep you company," said the L.C.P.

"You're well enough as you are," I said.

But she went, smiling; and I hardly missed her, I was so busy with my own thoughts.

One for you, and one for you, but never, never one for me?

I must have hummed the words aloud, for her voice answered me, at the door.

"Never's a long word, isn't it?"

I looked up.

A neat little figure stood on the threshold between the two rooms, the same neat little figure I had seen constantly during the past eight weeks. But it was not the same face. She had said, lightly, that she was going to "make herself pretty," and she had. She had performed a miracle. Or else I was asleep and dreaming.

The gray hair, folded in wings, was gone; the blue glasses were gone; the big bow under the chin was gone. A pretty young woman was smiling at me with the pretty little mouth I knew; but I did not know the bright auburn hair, or the beautiful brown eyes that threw me an amazing challenge.

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"You told me you didn't want your aunt any more," said she.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Don't you remember? I'm Mary Milton. If you'd lived in your own country, instead of gadding about in foreign ones, you'd know who Mary Milton is without asking--at least, you would if you ever read The New York Meteor."

"I suppose this is a dream, and that I shall wake up," said I. "I slept very badly last night."

"Don't call for help under the impression that it's a nightmare," said my late aunt, twinkling.

"I have the impression that it's a vision," I answered. "But if you don't explain yourself instantly, I shall die in the dream--of heart failure."

"There's no great mystery," said Miss Milton. "I didn't particularly want to disguise myself, but you advertised for an aunt, and as it's difficult for a girl to make herself look middle-aged, I had to look old. That's all, except that your advertisement came in very handy, because--as you'd know if you were a patriotic American--Mary Milton's an enterprising and rather celebrated young journalist making it her business to go round the world for her paper without spending a penny of her own. That was the understanding on which The Meteor started and 'boomed' me; for it was my own idea. I wanted to see things, and I hadn't money enough--so I went to call on the editor, and--I talked to him, till he was quite fired with the project. The Meteor has given me a good send-off, and I've given it good copy. My adventures--as they look in print--have been sensational, and, I believe, popular. I've been at it for two years, and all America has read me, if you haven't. I've done all the countries of Europe, now. Holland was the last, and I seemed stuck on the threshold till I saw your advertisement. It couldn't have suited better--except for the blue glasses and the wig. But one can't have everything as one likes it. I've enjoyed the tour immensely, thanks to you; and so have the readers of The Meteor. I'm afraid I've teased you a good deal, and spent a lot of your pennies; but it was fun! And you shall have your presents all back--every one of them. Heaps of money will be waiting for me from my paper when I get home to New York. They're delighted with my work; and then I intend to send you a check for all that you've paid me to be your aunt. I would rather, really; and only keep one little thing to remember you by, perhaps--and our days together."