Mary Stewart Cutting

“ Emma was one of those persons who cannot help trying to make people acquiesce consciously and rationally in any plan for their own good—an irritating habit, which breeds perversity. Aunt Westlake was showing the effect of it now.
“I don't see why you are talking about Robert's baby so much, Emma. Robert is nothing to me any more, nothing; I don't wish to hear about him. He has outraged every sense of decency; not one word has he sent me since his marriage to that impertinent girl. I cannot be expected to be pleased just because they have a child. What is a baby anyway? ”

“ There was something in your mother, Amy, when she was a child, that used to remind me of my little Alice, but I have never seen any baby since who really looked like her until now—the same little straight nose—I think a baby's nose is so cunning, don't you? ”

“ Her face attracted the attention of her hostess.
“You're looking tired, Amy. Where's the baby—up-stairs? They're really no satisfaction to bring out at this age. I could have told you that, but I didn't like to. Why don't you go up and rest, too, for a few moments? Don't go into the blue room by mistake—Aunt Westlake's there.” ”

“ Amy had said that the General Washington pitcher had been presented thus forty-two times. What are the things that hurt? Not what we say; it is the spirit behind our cheap words that charges them for good or ill. Perhaps there had been a little jealousy on Amy's part of the older woman who had liked Robert and did not like her.
“Oh, but Aunt Westlake!”—Emma was shocked at the turn the conversation had taken—“you know you don't mean what you say. ”

“ The commonest thing there is.”
From where Aunt Westlake sat the view of the street might well bear out her statement, for from far down the block in the bright spring sunshine came a procession of go-carts and perambulators, containing infants of various kinds and degrees, with groups of little toddlers alongside, rich and poor, bound for the park at the end of the street. Emma Dean, dark and trim, bending to get the light on her embroidery, felt her cheek flush guiltily as she caught sight of a familiar little form pushing one of the carriages, and wondered if Aunt Westlake saw it, too. Mrs. ”

“ Westlake had no children of her own, but in spite of her utterances she had always been very good to other people's. She was a tall, erect woman, with a deeply lined face, snow-white hair, and bright, dark eyes ”