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father—he has only got a sister. Your sister can’t help you much.”
    It seemed to Catherine that if she were his sister she would disprove this axiom. “Is she—is she pleasant?” she asked in a moment.
    â€œI don’t know—I believe she’s very respectable,” said young Townsend. And then he looked across to his cousin and began to laugh. “I say, we are talking about you,” he added.
    Morris Townsend paused in his conversation with Mrs. Penniman, and stared, with a little smile. Then he got up, as if he were going.
    â€œAs far as you are concerned, I can’t return the compliment,” he said to Catherine’s companion. “But as regards Miss Sloper, it’s another affair.”
    Catherine thought this little speech wonderfully well turned; but she was embarrassed by it, and she also got up. Morris Townsend stood looking at her and smiling; he put out his hand for farewell. He was going, without having said anything to her; but even on these terms she was glad to have seen him.
    â€œI will tell her what you have said—when you go!” said Mrs. Penniman, with a little significant laugh.
    Catherine blushed, for she felt almost as if they were making sport of her. What in the world could this beautiful young man have said? He looked at her still, in spite of her blush, but very kindly and respectfully.
    â€œI have had no talk with you,” he said, “and that was what I came for. But it will be a good reason for coming another time, a little pretext—if I am obliged to give one. I am not afraid of what your aunt will say when I go.”
    With this the two young men took their departure; after which Catherine, with her blush still lingering, directed a serious and interrogative eye to Mrs. Penniman. She was incapable of elaborate artifice, and she resorted to no jocular device—to no affectation of the belief that she had been maligned—to learn what she desired.
    â€œWhat did you say you would tell me?” she asked.
    Mrs. Penniman came up to her, smiling and nodding a little, looked at her all over, and gave a twist to the knot of ribbon in her neck. “It’s a great secret, my dear child, but he is coming a-courting!”
    Catherine was seriously still. “Is that what he told you?”
    â€œHe didn’t say so exactly, but he left me to guess it. I’m a good guesser.”
    â€œDo you mean a-courting me?”
    â€œNot me, certainly, miss; though I must say he is a hundred times more polite to a person who has no longer extreme youth to recommend her than most of the young men. He is thinking of someone else.” And Mrs. Penniman gave her niece a delicate little kiss. “You must be very gracious to him.”
    Catherine stared—she was bewildered. “I don’t understand you,” she said. “He doesn’t know me.”
    â€œOh yes, he does; more than you think. I have told him all about you.”
    â€œOh, Aunt Penniman!” murmured Catherine, as if this had been a breach of trust. “He is a perfect stranger—we don’t know him.” There was infinite modesty in the poor girl’s “we.”
    Aunt Penniman, however, took no account of it; she spoke even with a touch of acrimony. “My dear Catherine, you know very well that you admire him.”
    â€œOh, Aunt Penniman!” Catherine could only murmur again. It might very well be that she admired him—though this did not seem to her a thing to talk about. But that this brilliant stranger—this sudden apparition, who had barely heard the sound of her voice—took that sort of interest in her that was expressed by the romantic phrase of which Mrs. Penniman had just made use—this could only be a figment of the restless brain of Aunt Lavinia, whom everyone knew to be a woman of powerful imagination.

C HAPTER 6
    Mrs. Penniman even took for granted at times that other people had as