We young ones were more or less silent, of course, while my mother and my Aunt Amy talked about old times, and who was dead, and whose son had married which one's daughter, and all the rest of the chat which goes on when old neighbors come together. My dear mother was—no disparagement to her either—a bit of a gossip; though, as we had few friends among our French neighbors, she had had little opportunity of indulging her tastes; but now she grew more animated and interested than I had ever seen her, in hearing all the news my Aunt Amy had to tell.
"And what about our cousins at Stanton?" asked my mother presently. "From what Andrew tells me, I suppose the present lady is not much like the one I knew."
"No more than chalk is like cream cheese," answered Aunt Amy. "Yet she is a good lady, too, and a kind stepmother to the lad who is left, though she had two daughters of her own when she married my lord."
"And what like are they?"
"Nay, that you must ask Andrew. He has seen more of them than I have."
"Theo is well enough," said Andrew. "She is a merry girl, who cares not much for anything but pleasure and finery, but she is good-natured at least. Martha is a girl of another stamp. I pity the man who marries her. She hath far more mind than Theo, but such a temper! Disagree with her ever so little—do but dare to like what she hates or know something she does not—and she is your enemy for life."
"Gently, gently, my son," said his mother, with a little laugh. "What hath poor Martha done to you?"
"Nothing to me, mother, but I have seen enough of her doings to others. I believe there is but one person in the world she stands in awe of—her mother—and but one she loves—her half-brother, the young lord. I do think she cares for him."
"Ah, well!" said my aunt easily. "If she has such a temper, it brings its own punishment."
"And the punishment of a good many others also, unluckily," said Andrew, and then the conversation turned to other things.