This day she picked the roses absently, and shook the fairy petals
into her little sweet-grass basket with the air of a woman whose
thoughts were far away. We said nothing, knowing that Aunt Olivia's
secrets always came our way in time. When the rose-leaves were picked,
we carried them in and upstairs in single file, Aunt Olivia
bringing up the rear to pick up any stray rose-leaf we might drop.
In the south-west room, where there was no carpet to fade, we spread
them on newspapers on the floor. Then we put our sweet-grass baskets
back in the proper place in the proper closet in the proper room.
What would have happened to us, or to the sweet-grass baskets,
if this had not been done I do not know. Nothing was ever permitted
to remain an instant out of place in Aunt Olivia's house.
When we went downstairs, Aunt Olivia asked us to go into the parlour.
She had something to tell us, she said, and as she opened
the door a delicate pink flush spread over her face.
I noted it, with surprise, but no inkling of the truth came to me--
for nobody ever connected the idea of possible lovers or marriage
with this prim little old maid, Olivia Sterling.
Aunt Olivia's parlour was much like herself--painfully neat.
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