“Cut me off what, Aunt Tabitha?” inquired Christie, with some alarm in her tone.
“Off my good-will and favour, child.”
“Thank you, Aunt Tabitha, for telling me I didn’t know I was on,” said Christie simply.
“Good lack!” exclaimed Tabitha, in a tone which was a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Did the child think I cared nought about her, forsooth?”
“O Aunt Tabitha, do you?” demanded Christie, in a voice of innocent astonishment. “I am so glad. Look you, whenever you come, you always find fault with me for something, so I thought you didn’t.”
“Bless the babe! Dost think I should take all that trouble to amend thee, if I loved thee not?”
“Well, perhaps—” said Christie hesitatingly.
“But Aunt Alice always tried to mend me, and so does Father: but somehow they don’t do it like you, Aunt Tabitha.”
“They’re both a deal too soft and sleek with thee,” growled Aunt Tabitha. “There’s nought ’ll mend a child like a good rattling scolding, without ’tis a thrashing, and thou never hast neither.”
“Art avised (are you sure) o’ that, Tabitha?” asked Roger. “God sends not all His rain in thunderstorms.”