Her voice softened as I had never heard it do before when she spoke to me. It touched me very much; yet I think I should have said the same without it.
“O Aunt Kezia, please let me go with you!”
“Thank you, Cary,” said my Aunt Kezia in the same tone. “The old woman is not to be left quite alone, then? But it will be dull, child, for a young thing like you.”
“I would rather have it dull than lively the wrong way about,” said I; and Hatty broke out again.
“Would you!” said she, when she had done laughing. “I wouldn’t, I promise you. Sophy, don’t you know a curate you could marry? You had better, if you can find one.”
“Not one that has asked me,” was Sophy’s dry answer. “You don’t want me, then, Miss Hatty?”
“You would be rather meddlesome, I am afraid,” said Hatty, with charming frankness. “You would always be doing conscience.”
“Don’t you intend to keep one?” returned Sophy.
“I mean to lay it up in lavender,” said Hatty, “and take it out on Sundays.”
“Hatty, if you haven’t a care—”