as going to
Gloucester; and I have not left that for the clergy to see to, nor do I
see why I should the other. Folks don't always remember what you trust
them with, and sometimes they can't manage the affair. And I take the
liberty to think they'll find that matter rather hard to do, without I
see to it as well, and without the Lord sees to it beside. Farewell,
Madam; I shall be glad to meet you up there, and I do hope you'll make
sure you've got on the right road, for it would be uncommon awkward to
find out at last that it was the wrong one. Good-morrow, and God bless
you!"

Not a word came in answer, but I just glanced back through the crack of
the door, and saw Grandmamma sitting with the reddest face I ever did
see to her, and two big wrinkles in her forehead, taking pinch after
pinch in the most reckless manner.

My Aunt Dorothea, who stood in the door, said acidly,--"I think, Madam,
it would have been as well to keep such remarks till you were alone with
my mother. I do not know how it may be in Cumberland, but they are not
thought becoming to a gentlewoman here. Believe me, I am indeed sorry
to be forced to the discourtesy of saying so; but you were the first
offender."

"Ay," said my Aunt Kezia. "Folks that tell the naked truth generally
meet with more kicks than halfpence. But I would have spoken out of
these girls' hearing, only I got never a chance. And you see I shall
have to give in my account some day, and I want it to be as free from
blots as I can."

"I suppose you thought you were doing a good work for your own soul!"
said my Aunt Dorothea, sneeringly.

"Eh, no, poor soul!" was my Aunt Kezia's sorrowful reply. "My soul's
beyond my saving, but Christ has it safe. And knowing that, Madam,
makes one very pitiful to unsaved souls."

"Upon my word, Madam!" cried my Aunt Dorothea. "You take enough upon
you! `Unsaved souls,' indeed! Well, I am thankful I never had the
presumption to say that my soul was safe. I have a little more humility
than that."

"It would indeed be presumption in some cases," said my Aunt Kezia,
solemnly. "But, Madam, if you ask a princess whose daughter she is, it
is scarce presuming that she should answer you, `The King's.' What else
can she answer? `We know that we have eternal life.'"

"An apostle writ that, I suppose," said my Aunt Dorothea, in a hard
tone.

"They were not apostles he writ to," said my Aunt Kezia. "And he says
he writ on purpose th