Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. “Yes. 'He's a good fellow, and 'twill all end well'. I am almost old enough to be your father. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. There is worse to come. You are a girl with very little. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods.
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