"It is such a fine day that we thought we would walk over," began Lillian.
"Fine day, yes, but there'll be a change soon; mark my words," was the reply.
"What makes you think so?" asked Lillian.
"I dreamed last night of Peggy Stout; she's been dead these twenty years; it's a sure sign. And who's the young miss?" She peered at Anita.
"She is my cousin, Anita Beltrán," Lillian told her. "She is a great traveller, Aunt Betsy. She has come to us all the way from America, and has visited Spain and France, too."
"It queered me to know who it was, for I tells myself she doant be of Sussex. You've very welcome, I'm sure, miss."
"Granny sent you a new cap, Aunt Betsy," said Lillian, producing a package. "She thought you'd like to have it for to-morrow."
"Oh, not a Saddaday," cried Aunt Betsy, "that would be a larmentable bad time to wear it. Doant you know that one must never put on anything new on a Saddaday? I'll keep it for Sunday, if so be you doant care, Miss Lillian, and tell your mother it is an unaccountable nice cap and I'm greatly obliged to her for thinking of me. It's a gurt time since I saw your grandmother, miss."
"She doesn't get to town very often. She's been troubled with rheumatism a little this summer, and doesn't get about as often as she used, but still she is very bright and alert, isn't she, Anita?"
"She is wonderful," Anita agreed.