And then began the dissipations of the evening. Innocent enough dissipations, though they were howled at by some folks.
Aunt Sukey would resume her seat in the rocker.
Henny would set a little table near her mistress, and place on it the lighted candle and a pair of snuffers.
Rosemary would bring out from the top drawer of the bureau a hoarded and treasured volume, and lay it beside them.
Then, when all were seated—the lady in her rocker, the child on a little chair at her feet, and the negro girl on the floor in the corner of the chimney—Aunt Sukey would open the book, and begin where she left off the night before, and go on with the fortunes of “Evelina,” “Camilla,” “Clarissa Harlowe,” or “Amanda Fitzallen,” as the case might be; novels, which, however excellent in themselves, would scarcely be read in these days, though in those they were “devoured,” so much so that if one of them appeared in any house, it was sure to go the round of the whole county, and be read to rags before it got home again, if it ever did. In this respect the neighborhood was a free, unorganized, irresponsible circulating library.
Aunt Sukey bought some books, lent some, and borrowed some, but never kept any.
So evening after evening she would read to her attentive hearers, while little Rosemary’s large, blue eyes grew larger and larger with wonder and interest, and Henny’s attention relaxed, and her head drooped lower and lower, as she nodded over the fire, until there seemed some danger of her falling into it.
In this manner Miss Sukey was training, all unconsciously, the mind of the most romantic little fairy that ever lived to make a romance of her own.
When the dip candle had burned nearly down to the socket Aunt Sukey knew by that sign that it was about nine o’clock. They had no other timepiece, so they went by the candle, which always burned just so long.
Then Aunt Sukey would only finish her chapter before closing her book.