d her book, smoothed her
apron, and began:--

"When I was a girl--"

Now that we knew the story was coming, we pretended to no more
indifference. Once get aunty started, and, like a horse balky at the
jump, she was good for the journey. So Jerusha shut the Bible, and we
both sat down at her feet.

"Not too close, girls. It's dreadful warm."

Her face worked and her sides heaved with her provoking laugh, and we
were half afraid of a disappointment. But there was no danger. She was
by this time quite as ready to tell as we to hear.

"When I was a girl I went to singing-school. Dear me! how many of the
scholars are dead and gone! There was my brother William, poor fellow!
he died away off in Calcutty. And Sarah Morgan, she never would own to
it that she liked him. But actions speak plainer than words. She never
held up her head after. And she's dead now, too."

Aunt Clara's face--she _is_ a dear old aunty--had now lost every trace
of mirth. The golden sunset touched her fine head, and made her look so
sweetly beautiful that I wondered why no man had had the good taste,
long ago, to relieve her of her maiden name. Perhaps she will tell us
some day, and if she does, perhaps we will tell you. She sat two or
three minutes, thinking and looking, as if she waited to see the loved
and lost. There was a rustle, and she started from her revery. It was
only mother, flitting into the room with one of her uneasy glances. But
we were all so still and serious and Sabbath-like, that a look of relief
came over her countenance. She vanished again, and through the window I
saw her join her husband in the meadow.

"There, now, before they come in," said Aunt Clara. "When I was a girl,
I went to singing-school. Dear me! But we will not think of the dead any
more. There was one of the girls,--she thought she had a very good
voice. But she never sings now."

"Why?" asked Jerusha.

"The dear knows. I suppose because she is married. Married people never
sing, I believe. So, girls, if you would keep your voices, you must stay
single. Well, there was one of the boys, he thought _he_ had a good
voice. And he never sings now either."

"Why?" said I.

"O, he's married too. So don't you get cheated into thinking you have
mated a robin. He will turn out a crow, like as any way. I suppose they
both did have good voices, and, for all that I know, they have still.
They were the singing-master's especial wonders and his pattern pieces.
He nev