"H'elderly ladies as 'asn't been to the h'altar," says Mrs. Mitchell in confidence to cook, "can't be supposed to know what is right and proper for motherless lambs." And so the war rages.
Just now Mrs. Mitchell is plainly on the defensive, and eyes her baby—as she still calls Kit (having nursed her)—with all the air of one prepared to rush in and rescue her by bodily force, should the worst come to the worst.
"My dear Monica, what a late hour to be abroad!" says Miss Priscilla, reproachfully. "The dew falling, too, which is most unwholesome. For you, Kit, a mere child, it is really destruction. Nurse, as you are there," regarding the bony Mitchell with distrust and disfavor, "I think it as well to let you know I do not think this is a proper time for Miss Katherine to be in the open air. It is far too late."
"It isn't late, miss. It is only nine o'clock."
"Nine o'clock! What is the woman thinking about? Nine! why, that means night?"
"Not at this time of the year, miss."
"At any time of year. With all the experience you say you have had, I wonder you do not consider it a most injurious hour for a child of Miss Katherine's age to be out of doors."
"I don't hold with making a child puny, miss. Coddling up, and that sort, only leads to consumptions and assmas, in my humble opingion."
"I must request that for the future you will show deference to our opinion, nurse; which is directly opposed to yours," says Miss Priscilla, straightening herself.
"I suppose I can manage my own young lady, miss," says Mitchell, undaunted, and now, indeed, thoroughly braced for conflict.