Aunt Blin was a good deal excited; she always was by everything that befell “her Boston.”  She would sit by the window in her blanket shawl, and peer down the Place to see the mail-carts and express wagons creep slowly by, along Tremont Street, to and from the railways.  She was proud for the men who turned to and did quadruped work with a will in the emergency, and so took hold of its sublimity; she was proud of the poor horses, standing in suffering but royal seclusion in their stables, with hostlers sitting up nights for them, and the world and all its business “seeing how it could get along without them;” she was proud of all this crowd of business that had, by hook or by crook (literally, now), to be done.

She wanted the evening paper the minute it came.  She and the music mistress took the “Transcript” between them, and had the first reading weeks about.  This was her week; she held herself lucky.

The epizootic was like the war:  we should have to subside into common items that would not seem like news at all when that was over.

We all know, now, what the news was after the epizootic.

Meanwhile Aunt Blin believed, “on her conscience,” she had got the epidemic herself.

Bel had worked hard at the rooms this week, and late at home in the evenings.  Some of the girls lived out at the Highlands, and some in South Boston; there were days when they could not get in from these districts; for such as were on the spot there was double press and hurry.  And it was right in the midst of fall and winter work.  Bel earned twelve dollars in six days, and got her pay.

On Saturday night she brought home four Chater’s crumpets, and a pint of oysters.  She stewed the oysters in a porringer out of which everything came nicer than out of any other utensil.  While they were stewing, she made a bit of butter up into a “pat,” and stamped it with the star in the middle of the pressed glass saltcellar; she set the table near the fire, and laid it out in a specially dainty way; then she toasted the muffins, and it was past seven o’clock before all was done.

Aunt Blin sat by, and watched and smelled.  She was in no hurry; two senses at a time were enough to have filled.  She had finished the paper,—­it was getting to be an old and much rehashed story, now,—­and had sent it down to Miss Smalley.  It would be hers first, now, for a week.  Very well, the excitement was over.  That was all she knew about it.

In the privacy and security of her own room, and with muffins and oysters for tea, Aunt Blin took out her upper teeth, that she might eat comfortably.  Poor Aunt Blin! she showed her age and her thinness so.  She had fallen away a good deal since she had been sick.  But she was getting better.  On Monday morning, she thought she would certainly be able to go out.  All she had to do now was to be careful of her cough; and Bel had just bought her a new pair of rubbers.