But it meant nothing of the kind; it meant pretty white dresses for the three girls, two pairs of stockings and two of gloves for the whole family, a pattern of black silk for Mrs. Carey, and numberless small things to which the Carey wardrobe had long been a stranger.

Having bestowed these offerings rather grimly, as was her wont, and having received the family’s grateful acknowledgments with her usual lack of grace, she proceeded in the course of a few days to make herself far more disagreeable than had been the case on any previous visit of her life.  She had never seen such dusty roads as in Beulah; so many mosquitoes and flies; such tough meat; such a lack of fruit, such talkative, over-familiar neighbors, such a dull minister, such an inattentive doctor, such extortionate tradesmen.

“What shall we do with Cousin Ann!” exclaimed Mrs. Carey to Nancy in despair.  “She makes us these generous presents, yet she cannot possibly have any affection for us.  We accept them without any affection for her, because we hardly know how to avoid it.  The whole situation is positively degrading!  I have borne it for years because she was good to your father when he was a boy, but now that she has grown so much more difficult I really think I must talk openly with her.”

“She talked openly enough with me when I confessed that Gilbert and I had dropped and broken the Dirty Boy!” said Nancy, “and she has been very cross with me ever since.”

“Cousin Ann,” said Mrs. Carey that afternoon on the piazza, “it is very easy to see that you do not approve of the way we live, or the way we think about things in general.  Feeling as you do, I really wish you would not spend your money on us, and give us these beautiful and expensive presents.  It puts me under an obligation that chafes me and makes me unhappy.”

“I don’t disapprove of you, particularly,” said Miss Chadwick.  “Do I act as if I did?”

“Your manner seems to suggest it.”

“You can’t tell much by manners,” replied Cousin Ann.  “I think you’re entirely too soft and sentimental, but we all have our faults.  I don’t think you have any right to feed the neighbors and burn up fuel and oil in their behalf when you haven’t got enough for your own family.  I think you oughtn’t to have had four children, and having had them you needn’t have taken another one in, though she’s turned out better than I expected.  But all that is none of my business, I suppose, and, wrong-headed as you are, I like you better than most folks, which isn’t saying much.”

“But if you don’t share my way of thinking, why do you keep fretting yourself to come and see us?  It only annoys you.”

“It annoys me, but I can’t help coming, somehow.  I guess I hate other places and other ways worse than I do yours.  You don’t grudge me bed and board, I suppose?”

“How could I grudge you anything when you give us so much,—­so much more than we ought to accept, so much more than we can ever thank you for?”