“There’s safety in a multitude of counsellors, you know, Aunt Mimy, and I think on the whole I had best.”

“Wal! ef that’s yer delib’rate ch’ice betwixt Dr. Sprague an’ me, ye kin du ez ye like.  I never force my advice on no one, ’xcept this,—­I’d advise Emerline there ter throw them socks inter the fire; there’ll never none o’ them be fit ter sell, ’nless she wants ter spread the disease.  Wal, I’m sorry yer ’ve concluded ter hev thet old quack Sprague; never hed no more diplomy ‘n I; don’ b’lieve he knows cow-pox from kine, when he sees it.  The poor young man’s hed his last well day, I’m afeard.  Good-day ter ye; say good-bye fur me ter Stephen.  I’ll call ag’in, ef ye happen ter want any one ter lay him eout.”

And, staying to light her little black pipe, she jerked together the strings of her great scarlet hood, wrapped her cloak round her like a sentinel at muster, and went puffing down the hill like a steamboat.

Aunt Mimy Ruggles wasn’t any relation to us, I wouldn’t have you think, though our name was Ruggles, too.  Aunt Mimy used to sell herbs, and she rose from that to taking care of the sick, and so on, till once Dr. Sprague having proved that death came through her ignorance, she had to abandon some branches of her art; and she was generally roaming round the neighborhood, seeking whom she could devour in the others.  And so she came into our house just at dinner-time, and mother asked her to sit by, and then mentioned Cousin Stephen, and she went up to see him, and so it was.

Now it can’t be pleasant for any family to have such a thing turn up, especially if there’s a pretty girl in it; and I suppose I was as pretty as the general run, at that time,—­perhaps Cousin Stephen thought a trifle prettier; pink cheeks, blue eyes, and hair the color and shine of a chestnut when it bursts the burr, can’t be had without one ’s rather pleasant-looking; and then I’m very good-natured and quick-tempered, and I’ve got a voice for singing, and I sing in the choir, and a’n’t afraid to open my mouth.  I don’t look much like Lurindy, to be sure; but then Lurindy’s an old maid,—­as much as twenty-five,—­and don’t go to singing-school.—­At least, these thoughts ran through my head as I watched Aunt Mimy down the hill.—­Lurindy a’n’t so very pretty, I continued to think,—­but she’s so very good, it makes up.  At sewing-circle and quilting and frolics, I’m as good as any; but somehow I’m never any ’count at home; that’s because Lurindy is by, at home.  Well, Lurindy has a little box in her drawer, and there’s a letter in it, and an old geranium-leaf, and a piece of black silk ribbon that looks too broad for anything but a sailor’s necktie, and a shell.  I don’t know what she wants to keep such old stuff for, I’m sure.