Her father would care equally little whether
Morris were established in business or transported for life. Her
trunks had been brought into her room, and further reference to her
lover was for a short time suspended, while she opened them and
displayed to her aunt some of the spoils of foreign travel. These
were rich and abundant; and Catherine had brought home a present to
every one--to every one save Morris, to whom she had brought simply
her undiverted heart. To Mrs. Penniman she had been lavishly
generous, and Aunt Lavinia spent half an hour in unfolding and
folding again, with little ejaculations of gratitude and taste. She
marched about for some time in a splendid cashmere shawl, which
Catherine had begged her to accept, settling it on her shoulders, and
twisting down her head to see how low the point descended behind.
"I shall regard it only as a loan," she said. "I will leave it to
you again when I die; or rather," she added, kissing her niece again,
"I will leave it to your first-born little girl!" And draped in her
shawl, she stood there smiling.
"You had better wait till she comes," said Catherine.
"I don't like the way you say that," Mrs. Penniman rejoined, in a
moment. "Catherine, are you changed?"
"No; I am the same."
"You have not swerved a line?"
"I am exactly the same," Catherine repeated, wishing her aunt were a
little less sympathetic.
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