orry about the oldest son. He could go anywhere he
wanted and with any one he wanted by the time he was through college,
which his parents were working themselves to death to send him through,
and it was very probable that several girls in town would be glad to
add their grandfathers to his natural endowments before many years were
over. But if she didn't care for me to accept his attentions, as Miss
Araminta Armstrong called them, I could always have an engagement when
he asked me to go anywhere. She looked so shocked and distressed that
I told her I didn't approve of telling stories any more than she did,
and for most sorts people ought to be branded, but I'd much rather tell
one of that land than hurt a person's feelings. And it wouldn't be
untrue to say I had an engagement, for I always had one to go
everywhere and anywhere, even if I didn't keep it; and again she
coughed and looked so pained that I took her in my arms and whirled
around the room with her and told her not to worry about me, either. I
wouldn't disgrace her by knowing the wrong people too well, but
everybody had their peculiarities and one of mine was I was going to
know anybody I wanted to. I always thought a lady could, and, besides,
I liked any kind of person who was interesting, and the best born ones
were often very stupid, which of course was the wrong thing to say. So
I had to give her another whirl, and by the time she got her breath it
was time to see about supper, and she has never referred to the subject
since.

Miss Susanna is a darling little lady of the old school (whatever the
old school was) and I love her, but I am of my time as she is of hers,
and I don't see her way any more than she sees mine. She ought to wear
hoop-skirts and brocaded silks and lace fichus and mits, and sit with
her beautiful hands folded in her lap and her tiny little feet on a
footstool, and instead she works from morning to night trying to help
the good-for-nothingest servants that were ever hired by tired ladies,
except Uncle Henson, and Aunt Mandy, the cook, who have been with her
for years and years. She's worn out. That's what's the matter with
Miss Susanna, and that selfish, lazy little piece of pinkness who is
now away doesn't lift her hand to help her unless it is to make a cake
occasionally. I don't know how to make cake and never expect to know,
as very good kinds can be bought, but I can wash dishes. I do it every
morning and she dries the