"I never knew them," said she. "But I have found an aunt's do nearly as well."
"A grandmother's are not bad," said Bertram, looking very grave.
"I can never think of my mother without emotion," continued Mr. M'Gabbery. "I remember, as though it were yesterday, when I first stood at her knee, with a picture-book on her lap before me. It is the furthest point to which memory carries me—and the sweetest."
"I can remember back much before that," said George; "a great deal before that. Listen to this, Miss Baker. My earliest impression was a hatred of dishonesty."
"I hope your views have not altered since," said Caroline.
"Very materially, I fear. But I must tell you about my memory. I was lying once in my cradle—"
"You don't mean to tell me you remember that?" said M'Gabbery.
"Perfectly, as you do the picture-book. Well, there I was lying, Miss Baker, with my little eyes wide open. It is astonishing how much babies see, though people never calculate on their having eyes at all. I was lying on my back, staring at the mantelpiece, on which my mother had left her key-basket."
"You remember, of course, that it was her key-basket?" said Miss Waddington, with a smile that made M'Gabbery clench his walking-stick in his hand.
"Perfectly; because she always kept her halfpence there also. Well, there was a nursery-girl who used to be about me in those days. I distinctly saw her go to that basket, Miss Baker, and take out a penny; and I then made up my mind that the first use I would make of my coming speech should be to tell my mother. That, I think, is the furthest point to which my memory carries me."