s,
and ashamed, that she had been so foolish, and all the time casting
little covert, conceited glances at herself in the looking-glass.
Finally I kissed her and she kissed me, and I went home. I don't really
see what more a woman could have done for a rival who had supplanted
her. But this revelation makes me more sorry than ever for poor Ned. I
don't know, though; she may be more interesting than I thought. Anything
is better than the dead level of small books on large ones, and meals
on time. It cannot be exactly monotonous never to know whether you will
find a sleek, purry cat, or an absurd kitten, or a tigress, when you
come home. Luckily, she did not tell Ned of her jealousy, and I have
cautioned all in my family to hold their tongues, and I think they
will. I infer that they suspect that I must have been guilty of some
unbecoming elderly prank to bring about such a state of affairs, unless,
possibly, Maria's husband and Billy are exceptions. I find that Billy,
when Alice lets him alone, is a boy who sees with his own eyes. He told
me yesterday that I was handsomer in my pink dress than any girl in his
school.

"Why, Billy Talbert!" I said, "talking that way to your old aunt!"

"I suppose you ARE awful old," said Billy, bless him! "but you are
enough-sight prettier than a girl. I hate girls. I hope I can get away
from girls when I am a man."

I wanted to tell the dear boy that was exactly the time when he would
not get away from girls, but I thought I would not frighten him, but let
him find it out for himself.

Well, now the deluge! It is a week since Harry Goward went away, and
Peggy has not had a letter, although she has haunted the post-office,
poor child! and this morning she brought home a letter for me from that
crazy boy. She was white as chalk when she handed it to me.

"It's Harry's writing," said she, and she could barely whisper. "I have
not had a word from him since he went away, and now he has written to
you instead of me. What has he written to you for, Aunt Elizabeth?"

She looked at me so piteously, poor, dear little girl! that if I could
have gotten hold of Harry Goward that moment I would have shaken him. I
tried to speak, soothingly. I said:

"My dear Peggy, I know no more than you do why he has written to me.
Perhaps his uncle is dead and he thought I would break it to you."

That was rank idiocy. Generally I can rise to the occasion with more
success.

"What do I care about his o