"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"—said Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"
"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"
"Yes—from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it produced."
"And did it call forth your tears?"
"No, certainly not!—Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."
"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning, with a tear in her eye, while reading."
"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.
"What was she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.
"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."
Alice laughed outright.