The moral of which seems to be that if Rosa is so much of a philosopher that she sometimes seems to me to be talking scraps out of old heathen sages, she is yet only a woman.
October 20. Aunt Naomi had about her when she came stealthily in this afternoon an air of excitement so evident as almost to be contagious. I could see by the very hurry of her sliding step and the extra tightness of her veil that something had stirred her greatly.
"What is it, Aunt Naomi?" I asked at once. "You fairly bristle with news. What's happened?"
She smiled and gave a little cluck, but my salutation made her instantly moderate her movements. She sat down with a composed and self-contained air, and only by the unusually vigorous swinging of her foot showed that she was not as serene as on ordinary occasions.
"Who said anything had happened?" she demanded.
I returned that she showed it by her looks.
"Something is always happening, I suppose."
I know Aunt Naomi well enough to understand that the quickest way of coming at her tidings was to pretend indifference, so I asked no more questions, but made a careless remark about the weather.
"What made you think anything had happened?" persisted she.
"It was simply an idea that came into my head," was my reply. "I hope Deacon Daniel keeps the vestry warm in these days."