“As I did? What can you mean, Flora?”
“Did you not know you had become of a very cool politician a very warm one?” she said. “I remember, when you first went with me to Abbotscliff, Angus used to tease you about being a Whig: and you once told me you knew little about such matters, and cared less.”
I looked back at myself, as it were, and I think Flora must be right. I certainly thought much less of such things six months ago. I suppose hearing them always talked of has made a change in me.
There is another thing that I have been thinking about to-night. What is it in my Aunt Kezia that makes her feel so strong and safe to lean upon—so different from other people? I should never dream of feeling in that way to Grandmamma: and even Father,—though it is pleasant to rely on his strength and kindness, when one wants something done beyond one’s own strength,—yet he is not restful to lean on in the same way that she is. Is she so safe to hold by, because she holds by God?
This is Grandmamma’s last Tuesday, as Lent begins to-morrow, and I believe she would as soon steal a diamond necklace as have an assembly in Lent. I had been walking a great deal, as I have carried my Aunt Kezia these last few days to see all manner of sights, and I was very tired; so I crept into a little corner, and there Ephraim found me.
By the way, it is most diverting to carry my Aunt Kezia to see things. My Uncle Charles has gone with us sometimes, and Ephraim some other times: but it is so curious to watch her. She is the sight, to me. In the first place, she does not care a bit about going to see a thing just because everybody goes to see it. Then she has very determined ideas of her own about everything she does see. I believe she quite horrified my Uncle Charles, one day, when he carried us to see a collection of beautiful paintings. We stopped before one, which my Uncle Charles told us was thought a great deal of, and had cost a mint of money.
“What’s it all about?” said my Aunt Kezia.
“’Tis a picture of the Holy Family,” he answered, “by the great painter Rubens.”
“Now, stop a bit: who’s what?” said my Aunt Kezia, and set herself to study it. “Who is that old man that hasn’t shaved himself?”
“That, Madam, is Saint Joseph.”