"The idea," says she, which was exasperating; especially as Cousin E. E. kept laughing.
"That is as much as to say you don't think I'm good-looking enough to be afraid of," says I, feeling as if a cold frost was creeping over my face. "Thank you."
Cousin E. E. started up from her lounge, which is a cushioned bench rounded off at one end, and a high-backed easy-chair at the other; and says she:
"I didn't mean that, cousin; there is no one for whom I have so much respect. It was on account of your high religious principle and beautiful morality that I was so willing to trust you with my husband."
"With papa. The idea!" chimed in that child, giving her head a toss. "They'll think it's his mother."
"My daughter!" shrieked E. E., holding up both her hands, and falling back into the scoop of her couch.
"Oh, let her speak!" says I, feeling the goose pimples a-creeping up my arms. "I'm used to forward children. In our parts they slap them with a slipper, if nothing else is handy."
"A slipper; the idea!" snapped that child.
I didn't seem to mind her, but went on talking to her mother.
"But here, in York, the most careful mothers wear button boots, and keep special help to put them on and off, so the poor little wretches have no check on their impudence."