It was a real relief to them to have some one go ahead and decide things and not give them time to think whether they should do this or do that, or whether they had not better spend the money some other way.  Miss Susanna said, feebly, something about the roof needing to be fixed, and that the cellar ought to have a new floor, but I told her it would be sacrilegious to put a great-grandmother’s silver pitcher on the roof or in the cellar, and that it would mortify her heavenly ancestors to know such a thing was being done, and I was surprised at her mentioning it.  The only suitable way in which it would be proper to use the pitcher was in something personal, and as I was afraid Mr. Peter Smith would sell the satin, it was so lovely and only a little more than enough for a dress, I had told him to put it aside and I had to let him know that afternoon if it was wanted.  And another thing I told her was that all her life other people had been getting her share of nice things, and practicalities had eaten up everything pretty she had wanted for years, and there was an end to making over, and that she owed it to memories of the past to have a new dress for herself and not let all the newness always appear on a certain person’s back just because that certain person happened to be young.  Uncle Henson would be at the door with the carriage at four o’clock, I told her, to take us down-town, and she must be ready in time, as there was a good deal to do.  I wouldn’t take a mint of money for the look that came in her face as I talked.  I have put it away for low-down days.

As for Miss Araminta—­I wish I could write a book and put Miss Araminta Armstrong in it.  If the lady who wrote Cranford had known her she would have put her in, and it is a loss to literature that no one can do again for little places and the Miss Aramintas of life what the Cranford writer did.  She has told me right much about herself, and I don’t smile any more, even to myself, as I couldn’t help doing at first in the dark when I was so afraid I would roll on the floor and whoop that I had to hold on to my chair with both hands.  It is still funny to hear her tell of her beaux who never quite came to the point, and who were always snatched away at the critical moment by a jealous-minded person who was close kin but whose name she never mentions.  But it isn’t as funny as it used to be.  It’s queer how much tragedy there is in the comic things of life.  Ever since she was born Miss Araminta has been a pieced-and-patched-up person, and never once has she had everything new and to match at the same time.  When I told her about some of the things that must go with the lavender satin she began to cry a little and said she oughtn’t to let herself think about indulgences of that sort, as her poor brother was not in business at present and needed—­

“Now look here, Miss Araminta,” I said.  “The first preparation you have got to make for the party is to forget you have a brother and remember your own body, which needs attention.  It has come down from a long line of people who took very good care to put expensive things on theirs.  And another thing you ought to remember is that if your brother didn’t know he could call on you every time he lost his job—­”