“Cary Courtenay, do you know you have got ten years on your head in six months?”
“I feel as if I were a good deal older,” I said, smiling.
“You are the elder of the two now,” said my Aunt Kezia, drily. “Not but what Hatty has been through the kiln too; but it has softened her, and hardened you.”
“Then Hatty is gold, and I am only clay,” I said, and I could not help laughing a little, though I have not laughed much lately.
“There is some porcelain sells for its weight in gold,” said my Aunt Kezia.
“Thank you for the compliment, Aunt Kezia.”
“Nay, lass, I’m a poor hand at compliments; but I know gold when I see it—and brass, too. You’ll be home in good time for Sophy’s wedding.”
“Aunt Kezia, who does Sophy marry?”
“Mr Liversedge, the Rector.”
“Is not he rather rough?”