he left the house and was on his way up the road and pretty soon a beautiful young woman stepped out of the shrubbery and asked if she could speak to him. So they sat down, and she told him that she loved a young Roman centurion, but her people would not consent to their friendship, much less their marriage. And now she was in trouble. And she would be disgraced; likely driven from home.
“You gave my little sister her life back,” she said. “Can’t you speak a word that will save mine?’” Dorothy paused.
“So what did he do?” I inquired, with sincere interest.
“The author of the story didn’t say. He just stopped there, and left you guessing, like in The Lady or the Tiger. ”
I observed that it was a prudent way to finish the piece, even if it did leave you a bit curious over the outcome. She nodded agreement, and remarked that the problem must have put the Master in an embarrassing position. “For he was always so kind and helpful to everyone,” she murmured, meditatively. Then, after a little pause, she searched my eyes, and asked, “What do you think he would have done?”
I glanced at my watch, an ignoble trick, and replied that I shouldn’t be impudent enough to make a decision for the Lord; adding that perhaps we’d better proceed now with the main story.
“Millie, that’s my friend,” said Dorothy, settling to her task, “can’t stay in the store very much longer. And she can’t stay at home much longer, either.”
It was a fairly long narrative of a selfish aunt’s too exigent attentions. After Millie’s mother had died and their home was broken up, she had been taken in, at the age of twelve, by her mother’s sister Susan, a half-psychopathic woman of forty, with a bare subsistence income, a lame foot, and a weak heart.
She was too sensitive about her lameness to venture out of the house, except on short errands to the near-by grocery, and her erratic heart was much on her mind. One of the first things Millie had learned, upon coming to live with her, was that Aunt Susan mustn’t be upset.
Shy, reticent, and self-conscious. Aunt Susan lived the life of a hermit, unsparing in her stifling affection for the unhappy child, but dreading the intrusions of Millie’s young friends. So Millie gave up trying to entertain any of her girl companions; and, when she was invited to parties, Aunt Susan was distressed over what might happen to her ward. As Millie grew older, this cruelly strict supervision became more and more galling. If she was five minutes late in getting home from school, full explanations were in order. Aunt Susan, sitting at a front window, gnawing her thumbnail, would meet Millie at the door, shrill and shaky and scared.
“And that’s the way it went,” continued Dorothy, “all through her high-school days. She never had any fun. Sometimes we said, “Come on! Let your old lady worry a little, if she wants to.” But Millie couldn’t risk a heart attack; and, anyhow, she wouldn’t have a good time, knowing that her Aunt Susan was hobbling about through the house, half crazy with anxiety.”
I nodded my understanding, and said, “Too much devotion.”
“That has been the hard part of it,” Dorothy agreed. “The good old lady has simply strangled Millie with her love and kisses; never lets her alone for a minute; fusses with her hair, pats her on the cheek, stuffs her with home-made chocolates, insists on reading aloud, in the evenings, the sappiest, sloppiest, goody-goodiest stories, out of funny old books, about sweet and obedient girls who took care of grandpa until he died of it. And…”
“And so Millie finally broke through the fence,” I suggested, feeling that I now had the picture fairly well in hand. “Any chance of a marriage? That might help quite a bit.”
“I don’t believe he could stand it,” doubted Dorothy. “He would have to live there. Auntie’s heart would go back on her if Millie tried to make a home elsewhere.”
“Yes, I
“You gave my little sister her life back,” she said. “Can’t you speak a word that will save mine?’” Dorothy paused.
“So what did he do?” I inquired, with sincere interest.
“The author of the story didn’t say. He just stopped there, and left you guessing, like in The Lady or the Tiger. ”
I observed that it was a prudent way to finish the piece, even if it did leave you a bit curious over the outcome. She nodded agreement, and remarked that the problem must have put the Master in an embarrassing position. “For he was always so kind and helpful to everyone,” she murmured, meditatively. Then, after a little pause, she searched my eyes, and asked, “What do you think he would have done?”
I glanced at my watch, an ignoble trick, and replied that I shouldn’t be impudent enough to make a decision for the Lord; adding that perhaps we’d better proceed now with the main story.
“Millie, that’s my friend,” said Dorothy, settling to her task, “can’t stay in the store very much longer. And she can’t stay at home much longer, either.”
It was a fairly long narrative of a selfish aunt’s too exigent attentions. After Millie’s mother had died and their home was broken up, she had been taken in, at the age of twelve, by her mother’s sister Susan, a half-psychopathic woman of forty, with a bare subsistence income, a lame foot, and a weak heart.
She was too sensitive about her lameness to venture out of the house, except on short errands to the near-by grocery, and her erratic heart was much on her mind. One of the first things Millie had learned, upon coming to live with her, was that Aunt Susan mustn’t be upset.
Shy, reticent, and self-conscious. Aunt Susan lived the life of a hermit, unsparing in her stifling affection for the unhappy child, but dreading the intrusions of Millie’s young friends. So Millie gave up trying to entertain any of her girl companions; and, when she was invited to parties, Aunt Susan was distressed over what might happen to her ward. As Millie grew older, this cruelly strict supervision became more and more galling. If she was five minutes late in getting home from school, full explanations were in order. Aunt Susan, sitting at a front window, gnawing her thumbnail, would meet Millie at the door, shrill and shaky and scared.
“And that’s the way it went,” continued Dorothy, “all through her high-school days. She never had any fun. Sometimes we said, “Come on! Let your old lady worry a little, if she wants to.” But Millie couldn’t risk a heart attack; and, anyhow, she wouldn’t have a good time, knowing that her Aunt Susan was hobbling about through the house, half crazy with anxiety.”
I nodded my understanding, and said, “Too much devotion.”
“That has been the hard part of it,” Dorothy agreed. “The good old lady has simply strangled Millie with her love and kisses; never lets her alone for a minute; fusses with her hair, pats her on the cheek, stuffs her with home-made chocolates, insists on reading aloud, in the evenings, the sappiest, sloppiest, goody-goodiest stories, out of funny old books, about sweet and obedient girls who took care of grandpa until he died of it. And…”
“And so Millie finally broke through the fence,” I suggested, feeling that I now had the picture fairly well in hand. “Any chance of a marriage? That might help quite a bit.”
“I don’t believe he could stand it,” doubted Dorothy. “He would have to live there. Auntie’s heart would go back on her if Millie tried to make a home elsewhere.”
“Yes, I
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