Aunt Clara took off her specs, closed 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.
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