“Worse and worse!” sobbed the old lady, melting into tears. “I did think you were softening to me, and would end by loving me and always calling me aunt—Mrs Crane!”
“Aunt—auntie! There!” cried Isabel, running to her and kissing her. “But I think it is I who ought to complain.”
“Yes, my dear, you ought.”
“You shouldn’t say I make you bad.”
“But you do, my dear. It’s all on your account. It’s dreadful, and I lay awake nearly all the night pitying you.”
“Pitying me when I am so happy, auntie?” cried Isabel.
“Ah, my child! you don’t know. All men are full of evil, but doctors are the worst of all.”
“There, Bel; you are going to marry a horrid wretch,” cried Laura.
“Don’t scoff, my dear,” continued the old lady. “It is too serious. They are always away from home—called at the most unearthly hours.”
“Yes, to do good, auntie,” said Isabel, smiling.