At night, when we were going to bed, after Father had blessed us, Hatty runs round to his back and whispers in his ear.
“Don’t send Ambrose Catterall away, there’s a good Father!” says she: “there will be two of us old maids as it is.”
Father laughed, and pinched Hatty’s ear. So I saw my gentlewoman had been thinking the same thing I had. But I don’t think she ought to have said it out.
Stay, now! Why should it be worse to say things than to think them? Is it as bad to think them as to say them? Oh dear! but if one were for ever sifting one’s thoughts in that way,—why, it would be just dreadful! Not many people are careful about their words, but one’s thoughts!
No, I don’t think I could do it, really. I suppose my Aunt Kezia would say I ought. I do so dislike my Aunt Kezia’s oughts. She always thinks you ought to do just what you do not want. If only people would say, now and then, that you ought to eat plum-pudding, or you ought to dance, or you ought to wear jewels! But no! it is always you ought to sew, or you ought to carry some broken victuals to old Goody Branscombe, or you ought to be as sweet as a rosebud when Hatty says things at you.
Stop! would it be so if I always wanted to do the things I ought? I suppose not. Then why don’t I?
But why ought I? There’s another question.
I wish we either wanted to do what we ought, or else that we ought to do what we want!
I was obliged to stop last night all at once, because I heard Hatty coming up the garret stairs. I always write in the garret and keep my book there, so that none of the girls shall get hold of it—Hatty particularly. She would make such shocking game of it. I had only just put my book away safely when in she came.
“What on earth are you doing up here?” cried she.