Malcolm MacPherson. There was
such real agony in his tone that Peggy and I were
suddenly stricken with contrition. What were we doing?
We had no right to be listening to this pitiful interview.
The pain and protest in his voice had suddenly banished all
the humour from it, and left naught but the bare, stark tragedy.
We rose and tiptoed out of the room, wholesomely ashamed of ourselves.
When Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had gone, after an hour of useless pleading,
Aunt Olivia came up to us, pale and prim and determined, and told
us that there was to be no wedding. We could not pretend surprise,
but Peggy ventured a faint protest.
"Oh, Aunt Olivia, do you think you have done right?"
"It was the only thing I could do," said Aunt Olivia stonily.
"I could not marry Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I told him so.
Please tell your father--and kindly say nothing more to me
about the matter."
Then Aunt Olivia went downstairs, got a broom, and swept up the mud
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had tracked over the steps.
Peggy and I went home and told father. We felt very flat, but there
was nothing to be done or said. Father laughed at the whole thing,
but I could not laugh. I was sorry for Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and,
though I was angry with her, I was sorry for Aunt Olivia, too.
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