"Me!" aunt Rachel bridled.
"Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them, you would suffer pain."
"Pray, ma'am," said, aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she was chafed by my words, light as they were; "inform me where these weaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie?"
"Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place. But I only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us."
Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon a weakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weakness was a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegation against her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply expressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses, and included her in their application. But she imagined that I referred to some particular defect or fault, and mail-proof as she was against words, they had wounded her.
For a day or two, aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont. I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind an impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to her:
"Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning."
"Ah?" The old lady looked up at me enquiringly.
"I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl," I added.
"Why? What did I say?" quickly asked aunt Rachel.