"How miserable we should be! Mother, before I knew you I had an apprehension that you were not good—that I could not esteem you. That dread damped my wish to see you. And now my heart is elate because I find you perfect—almost; kind, clever, nice. Your sole fault is that you are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma, put your work down; read to me. I like your southern accent; it is so pure, so soft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one's voice here in the north has. My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a fine reader, mamma. Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with such propriety of expression or purity of accent."
"I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but, really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read and preach I could not understand his broad northern tongue."
"Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to speak roughly?"
"No. I almost wished you had, as I wished you had looked unpolished. Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke well, quite otherwise than your worthy uncle—correctly, gently, smoothly. You inherit the gift."
"Poor papa! When he was so agreeable, why was he not good?"
"Why he was as he was—and happily of that you, child, can form no conception—I cannot tell. It is a deep mystery. The key is in the hands of his Maker. There I leave it."
"Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away. Put down the sewing; I am an enemy to it. It cumbers your lap, and I want it for my head; it engages your eyes, and I want them for a book. Here is your favourite—Cowper."
These importunities were the mother's pleasure. If ever she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them repeated, and to enjoy her child's soft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency. And then, when she yielded, Caroline would say archly, "You will spoil me, mamma. I always thought I should like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet." So did Mrs. Pryor.