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MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.
BY JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
LONDON: SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C. NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO.
[Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]
TO MY HUSBAND A.E. IN REMEMBRANCE OF 1866 AND 1867 J.H.E.
CONTENTS.
IDA
MRS. MOSS
THE SNORING GHOST
REKA DOM
KERGUELEN'S LAND
IDA.
... "Thou shall not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale Primrose."
_Cymbeline._
The little old lady lived over the way, through a green gate thatshut with a click, and up three white steps. Every morning at eighto'clock the church bell chimed for Morning Prayer--chim! chime! chim!chime!--and every morning at eight o'clock the little old lady camedown the white steps, and opened the gate with a click, and went wherethe bells were calling.
About this time also little Ida would kneel on a chair at her nurserywindow in the opposite house to watch the old lady come out and go.The old lady was one of those people who look always the same. Everymorning her cheeks looked like faded rose-leaves, and her white hairlike a snow-wreath in a garden laughing at the last tea-rose. Everymorning she wore the same black satin bonnet, and the same whiteshawl; had delicate gloves on the smallest of hands, and gathered herskirt daintily up from the smallest of feet. Every morning she carrieda clean pocket-handkerchief, and a fresh rose in the same hand withher Prayer-book; and as the Prayer-book, being bound up with theBible, was very thick, she seemed to have some difficulty in so doing.Every morning, whatever the weather might be, she stood outside thegreen gate, and looked up at the sky to see if this were clear, anddown at the ground to see if that were dry; and so went where thebells were calling.
Ida knew the little old lady quite well by sight, but she did not knowher name. Perhaps Ida's great-uncle knew it; but he was a grave,unsociable man, who saw very little of his neighbours, so perhaps hedid not; and Ida stood too much in awe of him to trouble him with idlequestions. She had once asked Nurse, but Nurse did not know; so thequiet orphan child asked no more. She made up a name for the littleold lady herself, however, after the manner of Mr. John Bunyan, andcalled her Mrs. Overtheway; and morning after morning, though thebread-and-milk breakfast smoked upon the table, she would linger atthe window, beseeching--
"One minute more, dear Nurse! Please let me wait till Mrs. Overthewayhas gone to church."
And when the little old lady had come out and gone, Ida would creepfrom her perch, and begin her breakfast. Then, if the chimes went ontill half the basinful was eaten, little Ida would nod her headcontentedly, and whisper--
"Mrs. Overtheway was in time."
Little Ida's history was a sad one. Her troubles began when she wasbut a year old, with the greatest of earthly losses--for then hermother died, leaving a sailor husband and their infant child. Thesea-captain could face danger, but not an empty home; so he went backto the winds and the waves, leaving his little daughter withrelations. Six long years had he been away, and Ida had had manyhomes, and yet, somehow, no home, when one day the postman brought hera large letter, with her own name written upon it in a large hand.This was no old envelope sealed up again--no make-believe epistle tobe put into the post through the nursery door: it was a real letter,with a real seal, real stamps, and a great many post-marks; and whenIda opened it there were two sheets written by the Captain's very ownhand, in round fat characters, easy to read, with a sketch of theCaptain's very own ship at the top, and--most welcome above all!--thenews that the Captain's very own self was coming home.
"I shall have a papa all to myself very soon, Nurse," said Ida. "Hehas written a letter to me, and made me a picture of his ship; it isthe 'Bonne Esperance,' which he says means Good Hope. I love thisletter better than anything he has ever sent me."
Nevertheless, Ida took out the carved fans and workboxes, the beads,and handkerchiefs, and feathers, the dainty foreign treasures thesailor-father had sent to her from time to time; dusted them, kissedthem, and told them that the Captain was coming home. But the lettershe wore in her pocket by day, and kept under her pillow by night.
"Why don't you put your letter into one of your boxes, like a tidyyoung lady, Miss Ida?" said Nurse. "You'll wear it all to bits doingas you do."
"It will last till the ship comes home," said Miss Ida.
It had need then to have been written on the rock, graven with an ironpen for ever; for the "Bonne Esperance" (like other earthly hopes) hadperished to return no more. She foundered on her homeward voyage, andwent down into the great waters, whilst Ida slept through the stormynight, with the Captain's letter beneath her pillow.
Alas! Alas! Alas!
* * * * *
Two or three months had now passed away since Ida became an orphan.She had become accustomed to the crape-hung frock; she had learnt toread the Captain's letter as the memorial of a good hope which it hadpleased God to disappoint; she was fairly happy again. It was in themidst of that new desolation in her lonely life that she had come tostay with her great-uncle, and had begun to watch the doings of thelittle old lady who lived over the way. When dolls seemed vanity, andNoah's Ark a burden, it had been a quiet amusement, demanding noexertion, to see what little she could see of the old lady's life, andto speculate about what she could not; to wonder and fancy what Mrs.Overtheway looked like without her bonnet, and what she did withherself when she was not at church. Ida's imagination did not carryher far. She believed her friend to be old, immeasurably old,indefinitely old; and had a secret faith that she had never beenotherwise. She felt sure that she wore a cap indoors, and that it wasa nicer one than Nurse's; that she had real tea, with sugar and cream,instead of milk-and-water, and hot toast rather than bread-and-treaclefor tea; that she helped herself at meals, and went to bed accordingto her own pleasure and convenience; was--perhaps on these verygrounds--utterly happy, and had always been so.
"I am only a little girl," said Ida, as she pressed her face sadly tothe cold window-pane. "I am only a little girl, and very sad, youknow, because Papa was drowned at sea; but Mrs. Overtheway is veryold, and always happy, and so I love her."
And in this there was both philosophy and truth.
It is a mistake to suppose that the happiness of others is always adistasteful sight to the sad at heart. There are times in which lifeseems shorn of interests and bereaved of pleasure, when it is arelief, almost amounting to consolation, to believe that any one ishappy. It is some feeling of this nature, perhaps, which makes theyoung so attractive to the old. It soothes like the sound ofharmonious music, the sight of harmonious beauty. It witnesses to aconviction lying deep even in the most afflicted souls that (come whatmay), all things were created good, and man made to be blessed; beforewhich sorrow and sighing flee away.
This was one of many things which formed the attraction for Ida in thelittle old lady who lived over the way. That green gate shut in a lifeof which the child knew nothing, and which might be one of mysteriousdelights; to believe that such things could be was consoling, and toimagine them was real entertainment. Ida would sometimes draw a chairquietly to the table beside her own, and fancy that Mrs. Ov
erthewaywas having tea with her. She would ask the old lady if she had been intime for church that morning, beg her to take off her bonnet, andapologise politely for the want of hot tea and toast. So far all waswell, for Ida could answer any of these remarks on Mrs. Overtheway'sbehalf; but it may be believed that after a certain point thisone-sided conversation flagged. One day Nurse overheard Ida's lowmurmurs.
"What are you talking about, Miss Ida?" said she.
"I am pretending to have Mrs. Overtheway to tea," said Ida.
"Little girls shouldn't pretend what's not true," replied Nurse, inwhose philosophy fancy and falsehood were not distinguished. "Playwith your dolls, my dear, and don't move the chairs out of theirplaces."
With which Nurse carried off the chair into a corner as if it had beena naughty child, and Ida gave up her day-dream with a sigh; since tohave prolonged the fancy that Mrs. Overtheway was present, she musthave imagined her borne off at the crisis of the meal after a fashionnot altogether consistent with an old lady's dignity.
Summer passed, and winter came on. There were days when the whitesteps looked whiter than usual; when the snowdrift came halfway up thelittle green gate, and the snowflakes came softly down with apersistency which threatened to bury the whole town. Ida knew that onsuch days Mrs. Overtheway could not go out; but whenever it wastolerably fine the old lady appeared as usual, came daintily down thesteps, and went where the bells were calling. Chim! chime! chim!chime! They sounded so near through the frosty air, that Ida couldalmost have fancied that the church was coming round through the snowystreets to pick up the congregation.
Mrs. Overtheway looked much the same in winter as in summer. Sheseemed as fresh and lively as ever, carried her Prayer-book andhandkerchief in the same hand, was only more warmly wrapped up, andwore fur-lined boots, which were charming. There was one change,however, which went to Ida's heart. The little old lady had no longera flower to take to church with her. At Christmas she took a sprig ofholly, and after that a spray of myrtle, but Ida felt that these werepoor substitutes for a rose. She knew that Mrs. Overtheway had flowerssomewhere, it is true, for certain pots of forced hyacinths had passedthrough the little green gate to the Christmas church decorations; butone's winter garden is too precious to be cropped as recklessly assummer rose-bushes, and the old lady went flowerless to church andenjoyed her bulbs at home. But the change went to Ida's heart.
Spring was early that year. At the beginning of February there was agood deal of snow on the ground, it is true, but the air became milderand milder, and towards the end of the month there came a real springday, and all the snow was gone.
"You may go and play in the garden, Miss Ida," said Nurse, and Idawent.
She had been kept indoors for a long time by the weather and by acold, and it was very pleasant to get out again, even when the onlyamusement was to run up and down the shingly walks and wonder how soonshe might begin to garden, and whether the gardener could be inducedto give her a piece of ground sufficiently extensive to grow a crop ofmustard-and-cress in the form of a capital I. It was the kitchengarden into which Ida had been sent. At the far end it was cut offfrom the world by an overgrown hedge with large gaps at the bottom,through which Ida could see the high road, a trough for wateringhorses, and beyond this a wood. The hedge was very thin in February,and Ida had a good view in consequence, and sitting on a stump in thesunshine she peered through the gap to see if any horses came todrink. It was as good as a peep-show, and indeed much better.
"The snow has melted," gurgled the water, "here I am." It waseverywhere. The sunshine made the rich green mosses look dry, but inreality they were wet, and so was everything else. Slish! slosh! Putyour feet where you would, the water was everywhere. It filled thestone trough, which, being old and grey and steady, kept it still, andbade it reflect the blue sky and the gorgeous mosses; but the troughsoon overflowed, and then the water slipped over the side, and ran offin a wayside stream. "Winter is gone!" it spluttered as it ran."Winter is gone, winter-is-gone, winterisgone!" And, on the principlethat a good thing cannot be said too often, it went on with this allthrough the summer, till the next winter came and stopped its mouthwith icicles. As the stream chattered, so the birds in the woodsang--Tweet! tweet! chirrup! throstle! Spring! Spring! Spring!--andthey twittered from tree to tree, and shook the bare twigs withmelody; whilst a single blackbird sitting still upon a bough below,sang "Life!" "Life!" "Life!" with the loudest pipe of his throat,because on such a day it was happiness only to be alive.
It was like a wonderful fairy-tale, to which Ida listened with claspedhands.
Presently another song came from the wood: it was a hymn sung bychildren's voices, such as one often hears carolled by a troop oflittle urchins coming home from school. The words fell familiarly onIda's ears:
"Quite through the streets with silver sound, The flood of life doth flow; Upon whose banks on every side The wood of life doth grow.
"Thy gardens and thy gallant walks Continually are green; There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen.
"There trees for evermore bear fruit, And evermore do spring; There evermore the Angels sit, And evermore do sing."
Here the little chorus broke off, and the children came pouring out ofthe wood with chattering and laughter. Only one lingered, playingunder a tree, and finishing the song. The child's voice rose shrilland clear like that of the blackbird above him. He also sang ofLife--Eternal life--knowing little more than the bird of the meaningof his song, and having little less of that devotion of innocence inwhich happiness is praise.
But Ida had ceased to listen to the singing. Her whole attention wasgiven to the children as they scampered past the hedge, dropping bitsof moss and fungi and such like woodland spoil. For, tightly held inthe grubby hands of each--plucked with reckless indifference to budand stalk, and fading fast in their hot prisons--were primroses. Idastarted to her feet, a sudden idea filling her brain. The birds wereright, Spring had come, and there were flowers--_flowers for Mrs.Overtheway_.
Ida was a very quiet, obedient little girl, as a general rule; indeed,in her lonely life she had small temptation to pranks or mischief ofany kind. She had often been sent to play in the back garden before,and had never thought of straying beyond its limits; but to-day astrong new feeling had been awakened by the sight of the primroses.
"The hole is very large," said Ida, looking at the gap in the hedge;"if that dead root in the middle were pulled up, it would bewonderfully large."
She pulled the root up, and, though wonderful is a strong term, thehole was certainly larger.
"It is big enough to put one's head through," said Ida, and, stoopingdown, she exemplified the truth of her observation.
"Where the head goes, the body will follow," they say, and Ida'slittle body was soon on the other side of the hedge; the adage saysnothing about clothes, however, and part of Ida's dress was leftbehind. It had caught on the stump as she scrambled through. Butaccidents will happen, and she was in the road, which was something.
"It is like going into the world to seek one's fortune," she thought;"thus Gerda went to look for little Kay, and so Joringel sought forthe enchanted flower. One always comes to a wood."
And into the wood she came. Dame Nature had laid down her new greencarpets, and everything looked lovely; but, as has been before said,it certainly was damp. The little singer under the tree cared no morefor this, however, than the blackbird above him.
"Will you tell me, please, where you got your primroses?" asked Ida.
The child made a quaint, half-military salute; and smiled.
"Yonder," he said laconically, and, pointing up the wood, he went onwith the song that he could not understand:
"Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see!"
Ida went on and on, looking about her as she ran. Presently the woodsloped downwards, and pretty steeply, so that it
was somewhat of ascramble; yet still she kept a sharp look-out, but no primroses didshe see, except a few here and there upon the ground, which had beenplucked too close to their poor heads to be held in anybody's hands.These showed the way, however, and Ida picked them up in sheer pityand carried them with her.
"This is how Hop-o'-my-Thumb found his way home," she thought.
At the bottom of the hill ran a little brook, and on the opposite sideof the brook was a bank, and on the top of the bank was a hedge, andunder the hedge were the primroses. But the brook was between!
Ida looked and hesitated. It was too wide to jump across, and here, aselsewhere, there was more water than usual. To turn back, however, wasout of the question. Gerda would not have been daunted in her searchby coming to a stream, nor would any one else that ever was read of infairy tales. It is true that in Fairy-land there are advantages whichcannot always be reckoned upon by commonplace children in thiscommonplace world. When the straw, the coal, and the bean came to arivulet in their travels, the straw laid himself across as a bridgefor the others, and had not the coal been a degree too hot on thatunlucky occasion, they might (for anything Ida knew to the contrary)still have been pursuing their journey in these favourablecircumstances. But a travelling-companion who expands into a bridge onan emergency is not to be met with every day; and as to poor Ida--shewas alone. She stood first on one leg, and then on the other, shelooked at the water, and then at the primroses, and then at the wateragain, and at last perceived that in one place there was a large,flat, moss-covered stone in the middle of the stream, which stood wellout of the water, and from which--could she but reach it--she mightscramble to the opposite bank. But how to reach it? that nice, large,secure, comfortable-looking stone.
"I must put some more stones," thought Ida. There were plenty in thestream, and Ida dragged them up, and began to make a ford by pilingthem together. It was chilly work, for a cloud had come over the sun;and Ida was just a little bit frightened by the fresh-water shrimps,and some queer, many-legged beasts, who shot off the stones as shelifted them. At last the ford was complete. Ida stepped daintily overthe bridge she had made, and jumped triumphantly on to the big stone.Alas! for trusting to appearances. The stone that looked so firm, wasinsecurely balanced below, and at the first shock one side went downwith a splash, and Ida went with it. What a triumph for the shrimps!She scrambled to the bank, however, made up a charming bunch ofprimroses, and turned to go home. Never mind how she got back acrossthe brook. We have all waded streams before now, and very good fun itis in June, but rather chilly work in February; and, in spite ofrunning home, Ida trembled as much with cold as with excitement whenshe stood at last before Mrs. Overtheway's green gate.
Click! Ida went up the white steps, marking them sadly with her wetfeet, and gave a valiant rap. The door was opened, and a tall, rathersevere-looking housekeeper asked:
"What do you want, my dear?"
A shyness, amounting to terror, had seized upon Ida, and she couldhardly find voice to answer.
"If you please, I have brought these for--"
For whom? Ida's pale face burnt crimson as she remembered that afterall she did not know the little old lady's name. Perhaps the severehousekeeper was touched by the sight of the black frock, torn as itwas, for she said kindly:
"Don't be frightened, my dear. What do you want?"
"These primroses," said Ida, who was almost choking. "They are forMrs. Overtheway to take to church with her. I am very sorry, if youplease, but I don't know her name, and I call her Mrs. Overthewaybecause, you know, she lives over the way. At least--" Ida added,looking back across the road with a sudden confusion in her ideas,"at least--I mean--you know--_we_ live over the way." And overwhelmedwith shame at her own stupidity, Ida stuffed the flowers into thewoman's hand, and ran home as if a lion were at her heels.
"Well! Miss Ida," began Nurse, as Ida opened the nursery door(and there was something terrible in her "well"); "if I ever--" andNurse seized Ida by the arm, which was generally premonitory of herfavourite method of punishment--"a good shaking." But Ida clung closeand flung her arms round Nurse's neck.
"Don't shake me, Nursey, dear," she begged, "my head aches so. I havebeen very naughty, I know. I've done everything you can think of; I'vecrept through the hedge, and been right through the wood, and made aford, and tumbled into the brook, and waded back, and run all the wayhome, and been round by the town for fear you should see me. And I'vedone something you could never, never think of if you tried till nextChristmas, I've got some flowers for Mrs. Overtheway, only I did it sostupidly; she will think me a perfect goose, and perhaps be angry,"and the tears came into Ida's eyes.
"She'll think you a naughty, troublesome child, as you are," saidNurse, who seldom hesitated to assume the responsibility of anystatement that appeared to be desirable; "you're mad on that old lady,I think. Just look at that dress!"
Ida looked, but her tears were falling much too fast for her to have aclear view of anything, and the torn edges of the rent seemed fringedwith prismatic colours.
To crown all she was sent to bed. In reality, this was to save thenecessity of wearing her best frock till the other was mended, andalso to keep her warm in case she should have caught cold; but Nursespoke of it as a punishment, and Ida wept accordingly. And this was atriumph of that not uncommon line of nursery policy which consists inelaborately misleading the infant mind for good.
Chim! chime! went the bells next morning, and Mrs. Overtheway camedown the white steps and through the green gate with a bunch ofprimroses in her hand. She looked up as usual, but not to the sky. Shelooked to the windows of the houses over the way, as if she expectedsome one to be looking for her. There was no face to be seen, however;and in the house directly opposite, one of the upper blinds was drawndown. Ida was ill.
How long she was ill, and of what was the matter with her, Ida had novery clear idea. She had visions of toiling through the wood over andover again, looking vainly for something that could never be found; ofbeing suddenly surrounded and cut off by swollen streams; and ofcrawling, unclean beasts with preternatural feelers who got into herboots. Then these heavy dreams cleared away in part, and the streamseemed to ripple like the sound of church bells, and these chimed outthe old tune
"Quite through the streets, with silver sound," &c.
And then, at last, she awoke one fine morning to hear the sweetchim-chiming of the church bells, and to see Nurse sitting by herbedside. She lay still for a few moments to make quite sure, and thenasked in a voice so faint that it surprised herself:
"Has Mrs. Overtheway gone to church?"
On which, to her great astonishment, Nurse burst into tears. For thiswas the first reasonable sentence that poor Ida had spoken for severaldays.
To be very ill is not pleasant; but the slow process of getting backstrength is often less pleasant still. One afternoon Ida knelt in herold place at the window. She was up, but might not go out, and thiswas a great grief. The day had been provokingly fine, and even now,though the sun was setting, it seemed inclined to make a fresh start,so bright was the rejuvenated glow with which it shone upon theopposite houses, and threw a mystic glory over Mrs. Overtheway's whitesteps and green railings. Oh! how Ida had wished to go out thatafternoon! How long and clear the shadows were! It seemed to Ida thatwhoever was free to go into the open air could have nothing more todesire. "Out of doors" looked like Paradise to the drooping littlemaid, and the passers-by seemed to go up and down the sunny street ina golden dream. Ida gazed till the shadows lengthened, and crept overthe street and up the houses; till the sunlight died upon therailings, and then upon the steps, and at last lingered for half anhour in bright patches among the chimney-stacks, and then went outaltogether, and left the world in shade.
Twilight came on and Ida sat by the fire, which rose into importancenow that the sunshine was gone; and, moreover, spring evenings arecold.
Ida felt desolate, and, on the whole, rather ill-used. Nurse had notbeen upstairs for hours, and th
ough she had promised real tea andtoast this evening, there were no signs of either as yet. The poorchild felt too weak to play, and reading made her eyes ache. If onlythere were some one to tell her a story.
It grew dark, and then steps came outside the door, and a fumblingwith the lock which made Ida nervous.
"Do come in, Nursey!" she cried.
The door opened, and someone spoke; but the voice was not the voice ofNurse. It was a sweet, clear, gentle voice; musical, though no longeryoung; such a voice as one seldom hears and never forgets, which cameout of the darkness, saying:
"It is not Nurse, my dear; she is making the tea, and gave me leaveto come up alone. I am Mrs. Overtheway."
And there in the firelight stood the little old lady, as she has beenbefore described, except that instead of her Prayer-book she carried alarge pot hyacinth in her two hands.
"I have brought you one of my pets, my dear," said she. "I think weboth love flowers."
The little old lady had come to tea. This was charming. She took offher bonnet, and her cap more than fulfilled Ida's expectations,although it was nothing smarter than a soft mass of tulle, tied withwhite satin strings. But what a face looked out of it! Mrs.Overtheway's features were almost perfect. The beauty of her eyes wasrather enhanced by the blue shadows that Time had painted round them,and they were those good eyes which remind one of a clear well, at thebottom of which he might see truth. When young she must have beenexquisitely beautiful, Ida thought. She was lovely still.
In due time Nurse brought up tea, and Ida could hardly believe thather fancies were realized at last; indeed more than realized--for nobread and treacle diminished the dignity of the entertainment; andNurse would as soon have thought of carrying off the Great Mogul onhis cushions, as of putting Mrs. Overtheway and her chair into thecorner.
But there is a limit even to the space of time for which one canenjoy tea and buttered toast. The tray was carried off, the hyacinthput in its place, and Ida curled herself up in an easy chair on oneside of the fire, Mrs. Overtheway being opposite.
"You see I am over the way still," laughed the little old lady. "Now,tell me all about the primroses." So Ida told everything, andapologized for her awkward speeches to the housekeeper.
"I don't know your name yet," said she.
"Call me Mrs. Overtheway still, my dear, if you please," said thelittle old lady. "I like it."
So Ida was no wiser on this score.
"I was so sorry to hear that you had been made ill on my account,"said Mrs. Overtheway. "I have been many times to ask after you, andto-night I asked leave to come to tea. I wish I could do something toamuse you, you poor little invalid. I know you must feel dull."
Ida's cheeks flushed.
"If you would only tell me a story," she said, "I do so like hearingNurse's stories. At least she has only one, but I like it. It isn'texactly a story either, but it is about what happened in her lastplace. But I am rather tired of it. There's Master Henry--I like himvery much, he was always in mischief; and there's Miss Adelaide, whosehair curled naturally--at least with a damp brush--I like her; but Idon't have much of them; for Nurse generally goes off about a quarrelshe had with the cook, and I never could tell what they quarrelledabout, but Nurse said cook was full of malice and deceitfulness, soshe left. I'm rather tired of it."
"What sort of a story shall I tell you?" asked Mrs. Overtheway.
"A true one, I think," said Ida. "Something that happened to youyourself, if you please. You must remember a great many things, beingso old."
And Ida said this in simple good-faith, believing it to be acompliment.
"It is quite true," said Mrs. Overtheway, "that one remembers manythings at the end of a long life, and that they are often those thingswhich happened a long while ago, and which are sometimes so slight inthemselves that it is wonderful that they should not have beenforgotten. I remember, for instance, when I was about your age, anincident that occurred which gave me an intense dislike to a specialshade of brown satin. I hated it then, and at the end of more thanhalf a century, I hate it still. The thing in itself was a mere folly;the people concerned in it have been dead for many years, and yet atthe present time I should find considerable difficulty in seeing themerits of a person who should dress in satin of that peculiar hue.
"What was it?" asked Ida.
"It was not amber satin, and it was not snuff-coloured satin; it wasone of the shades of brown known by the name of feuille-morte, ordead-leaf colour. It is pretty in itself, and yet I dislike it."
"How funny," said Ida, wriggling in the arm-chair with satisfaction."Do tell me about it."
"But it is not funny in the least, unfortunately," said Mrs.Overtheway, laughing. "It isn't really a story, either. It is not evenlike Nurse's experiences. It is only a strong remembrance of mychildhood, that isn't worth repeating, and could hardly amuse you."
"Indeed, indeed, it would," said Ida. "I like the sound of it. Satinis so different from cooks."
Mrs. Overtheway laughed.
"Still, I wish I could think of something more entertaining," saidshe.
"Please tell me that," said Ida, earnestly; "I would rather hearsomething about you than anything else."
There was no resisting this loving argument. Ida felt she had gainedher point, and curled herself up into a listening attitudeaccordingly. The hyacinth stood in solemn sweetness as if it werelistening also; and Mrs. Overtheway, putting her little feet upon thefender to warm, began the story of ----
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