“And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has showed her good sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very bad failing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to one's friends.”
“It is, I know; but still, all of, us have a weak point, and to her that is assailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings.”
“Well, I say now, as I have always said—I don't like to have anything to do with people who have these weak points. This being hurt by a word, as if words were blows, is something that does not come within the range of my sympathies.”
“And yet, aunt,” said I, “all have weak points. Even you are not entirely free from them.”
“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, sir,” 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 any impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to her,