I told them
there would be no time to hesitate. They got so flustrated at being
managed and so dazed by the pictures I showed them of the dresses I had
drawn that they were lambs, perfect lambs. They let me do everything I
told them ought to be done.

It was a real relief to them to have some one go ahead and decide
things and not give them time to think whether they should do this or
do that, or whether they had not better spend the money some other way.
Miss Susanna said, feebly, something about the roof needing to be
fixed, and that the cellar ought to have a new floor, but I told her it
would be sacrilegious to put a great-grandmother's silver pitcher on
the roof or in the cellar, and that it would mortify her heavenly
ancestors to know such a thing was being done, and I was surprised at
her mentioning it. The only suitable way in which it would be proper
to use the pitcher was in something personal, and as I was afraid Mr.
Peter Smith would sell the satin, it was so lovely and only a little
more than enough for a dress, I had told him to put it aside and I had
to let him know that afternoon if it was wanted. And another thing I
told her was that all her life other people had been getting her share
of nice things, and practicalities had eaten up everything pretty she
had wanted for years, and there was an end to making over, and that she
owed it to memories of the past to have a new dress for herself and not
let all the newness always appear on a certain person's back just
because that certain person happened to be young. Uncle Henson would
be at the door with the carriage at four o'clock, I told her, to take
us down-town, and she must be ready in time, as there was a good deal
to do. I wouldn't take a mint of money for the look that came in her
face as I talked. I have put it away for low-down days.

As for Miss Araminta--I wish I could write a book and put Miss Araminta
Armstrong in it. If the lady who wrote _Cranford_ had known her she
would have put her in, and it is a loss to literature that no one can
do again for little places and the Miss Aramintas of life what the
_Cranford_ writer did. She has told me right much about herself, and I
don't smile any more, even to myself, as I couldn't help doing at first
in the dark when I was so afraid I would roll on the floor and whoop
that I had to hold on to my chair with both hands. It is still funny
to hear her tell of her beaux who never quite came to th