"Humph!" she sniffed. "There's wickedness here that isn't generally looked for outside of the city."
"Oh, wickedness!" I said. "There is plenty of that everywhere, I suppose; but I never have thought we have more than our share of it."
She wagged her foot more violently, and had what might have seemed a considerable lunch on her green veil before she spoke again—though it is wicked for me to make fun of her. Then she took a fresh start.
"What are you knitting?" she asked.
"What started in January to be some mittens for the Turner boy. He brings our milk, and he never seems to have mittens enough."
"I don't wonder much," was her comment. "His mother has so many babies that she can't be expected to take care of them."
"Poor Mrs. Turner," I said. "I should think the poor thing would be discouraged. I am ashamed that I don't do more for her."
"I don't see that you are called upon to take care of all the poor in the town; but if you could stop her increasing her family it'd be the best thing you could do."
When Aunt Naomi makes a remark like this, I feel it is discreet to change the subject.
"I hope that now the weather is getting milder," I observed, "you are not so cold in prayer-meetings."