Plainly she felt badly enough over her vanished hopes and plans,
but she had developed a strange and baffling reserve which
nothing could pierce.
"It's nothing but a chronic case of old-maidism," said father impatiently.
Things were very dull for a week. We saw no more of
Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and we missed him dreadfully.
Aunt Olivia was inscrutable, and worked with fierceness
at superfluous tasks.
One evening father came home with some news.
"Malcolm MacPherson is leaving on the 7:30 train for the west,"
he said. "He has rented the Avonlea place and he's off.
They say he is mad as a hatter at the trick Olivia played on him."
After tea Peggy and I went over to see Aunt Olivia, who had
asked our advice about a wrapper. She was sewing as for
dear life, and her face was primmer and colder than ever.
I wondered if she knew of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson's departure.
Delicacy forbade me to mention it but Peggy had no such scruples.
"Well, Aunt Olivia, your beau is off," she announced cheerfully.
"You won't be bothered with him again. He is leaving on the mail
train for the west."
Aunt Olivia dropped her sewing and stood up. I have never
seen anything like the transformation that came over her.
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