“I am sure we do all we can for you,” said my mother. “I know you do,” replied my aunt. “I'm a burden to you. I always have been.”
“Not a burden,” corrected my mother.
“What does the woman call it then,” snapped back my aunt. “Does she reckon I've been a sunbeam in the house? I've been a trial to everybody. That's what I was born for; it's my metier.”
My mother put her arms about the poor old soul and kissed her. “We should miss you very much,” she said.
“I'm sure I hope they all will!” answered my aunt. “It's the only thing I've got to leave 'em, worth having.”
My mother laughed.
“Maybe it's been a good thing for you, Maggie,” grumbled my aunt; “if it wasn't for cantankerous, disagreeable people like me, gentle, patient people like you wouldn't get any practice. Perhaps, after all, I've been a blessing to you in disguise.”
I cannot honestly say we ever wished her back; though we certainly did miss her—missed many a joke at her oddities, many a laugh at her cornery ways. It takes all sorts, as the saying goes, to make a world. Possibly enough if only we perfect folk were left in it we would find it uncomfortably monotonous.
As for Amy, I believe she really regretted her.
“One never knows what's good for one till one's lost it,” sighed Amy.