. There was one merit about him
(due no doubt to his worldly training) which I have no wish to deny.
He was quick at seeing things. I appeared to produce almost the same
impression on him which I had produced on the cabman. HE too uttered
a profane expression, and withdrew in a violent hurry, and left me
mistress of the field.

As soon as we were alone, my aunt reclined on the sofa, and then
alluded, with some appearance of confusion, to the subject of her Will.

"I hope you won't think yourself neglected, Drusilla," she said. "I mean
to GIVE you your little legacy, my dear, with my own hand."

Here was a golden opportunity! I seized it on the spot. In other words,
I instantly opened my bag, and took out the top publication. It proved
to be an early edition--only the twenty-fifth--of the famous anonymous
work (believed to be by precious Miss Bellows), entitled THE SERPENT AT
HOME. The design of the book--with which the worldly reader may not be
acquainted--is to show how the Evil One lies in wait for us in all the
most apparently innocent actions of our daily lives. The chapters best
adapted to female perusal are "Satan in the Hair Brush;" "Satan behind
the Looking Glass;" "Satan under the Tea Table;" "Satan out of the
Window'--and many others.

"Give your attention, dear aunt, to this precious book--and you will
give me all I ask." With those words, I handed it to her open, at a
marked passage--one continuous burst of burning eloquence! Subject:
Satan among the Sofa Cushions.

Poor Lady Verinder (reclining thoughtlessly on her own sofa cushions)
glanced at the book, and handed it back to me looking more confused than
ever.

"I'm afraid, Drusilla," she said, "I must wait till I am a little
better, before I can read that. The doctor----"

The moment she mentioned the doctor's name, I knew what was coming.
Over and over again in my past experience among my perishing
fellow-creatures, the members of the notoriously infidel profession
of Medicine had stepped between me and my mission of mercy--on
the miserable pretence that the patient wanted quiet, and that the
disturbing influence of all others which they most dreaded, was the
influence of Miss Clack and her Books. Precisely the same blinded
materialism (working treacherously behind my back) now sought to rob me
of the only right of property that my poverty could claim--my right of
spiritual property in my perishing aunt.

"The doctor tells me," my poor misguide