As she sat placidly knitting, an interruption came in the shape of a knock at the front door.
"I'll go myself," she said, rising, and laying down the stocking. "Hannah's out in the back room, and won't hear. I hope it aint Mrs. Smith, come to borrow some butter. She aint returned that last half-pound she borrowed. She seems to think her neighbors have got to support her."
These thoughts were in her mind as she opened the door. But no Mrs. Smith presented her figure to the old lady's gaze. She saw instead, with considerable surprise, a stylish young man with a book under his arm. She jumped to the conclusion that he was a book-pedler, having been annoyed by several persistent specimens of that class of travelling merchants.
"If you've got books to sell," she said, opening the attack, "you may as well go away. I aint got no money to throw away."
Mr. Ferdinand B. Kensington—for he was the young man in question—laughed heartily, while the old lady stared at him half amazed, half angry.
"I don't see what there is to laugh at," said she, offended.
"I was laughing at the idea of my being taken for a book-pedler."
"Well, aint you one?" she retorted. "If you aint, what be you?"
"Aunt Deborah, don't you know me?" asked the young man, familiarly.
"Who are you that calls me aunt?" demanded the old lady, puzzled.