In college I was the “Illustrious Lazy.”  In my professional studies and avocations, I have been so hard driven, in order to make up for four idle years, that I am wasted almost to a shadow, and fears are entertained that I shall wholly vanish into thin air.  My physician talks gravely about my having exhausted my nervous energy, and sends me to Ratborough, as the place of all others the most favorable for entire intellectual repose.  I am living with an old aunt, Tabitha Flint, who was wont to rock me, and trot me, and wash my face, in my helpless infancy, and can hardly yet be convinced that I have outgrown such endearing assiduities in the twenty-five years that have intervened.  I let her pet me, so far as I find it convenient, and, indeed, farther, because I feel grateful for the kind feelings of which I am the object.

There is another personage in the household, who probably thinks that in the exuberant kindness of my aunt I have a full average of civility, without the least interest on her part.  Do not for a moment imagine that I am piqued at her insulting indifference of manner towards a young man who (I beg you to believe) is not wholly without claim to a glance of approbation now and then from a lady’s eye.  You must not suppose I care at all about the matter.  But as I have not even a book allowed me to take up my thoughts, my curiosity fixes itself strangely upon this silent, sulky, meditative little person, who takes about as much notice of me as of the figure of Father Time over the clock.

What can such a body have to think about the livelong day that is so absorbing that all one’s bright thoughts, and one’s most whimsical sallies, pass without notice?  Should I see her once move a muscle of her very plain, doggedly inexpressive, provokingly composed phiz, I should jump up and cry, “Bo!” with surprise.

She vanishes several hours at a time, and I hear her humming to herself, sometimes in one room, sometimes in another.  I wish I knew how she amuses herself, for I find self-amusement the hardest drudgery I ever tried.  I could stamp, I am so impatient of doing nothing but lounge about; I am as snappish as a chained cur, as cross as a caged bear.  And while I gnaw my nails, and stretch, and yawn, I hear that contented, bee-like murmur, and now and then a light, rapid step on the stairs, or about rooms which I do not frequent.  What can she find to be so busy about, the absurd little person? how can she be so happy in this dull house alone?

There is a piano, but as silent as she is.  I do not see her wince, though I drum upon the keys with most ingenious discords, and sing false on purpose as loud as I can bellow.  I will not ask her if she can play; she can have no ear at all, or she would box mine in self-defence.

There is somebody, by name Flora, who is looked for daily by stage-coach.  “Flory,” says my aunt, “sings like a canary-bird, and plays a sight,”—­and at sight too, it seems.  This Miss Flora will be found to possess a tongue, I hope, and the disposition to give it exercise.  I do not know certainly that Miss Etty—­By the way, what is her real name?  I won’t condescend to ask any question about her.  But really, I wish I knew whether it is Mehitable.  Perhaps Henrietta.  No, no, that is too pretty a name; I shall call her Little Ugly.