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"He is fond of flowers," remarked Aunt Merce; "he examined all my plants, and knew all their botanical names." "That's a balm for every wound with you, isn't it?" Temperance said. "I spose I can clean the parlor, unless Mis Carver and Chandler are sitting in a row there?"
Temperance and Aunt Merce took as much care of her as she would allow; but she preferred being alone most of the time. Thus she acquired the fortitude of an Indian; pain could extort no groan from her. It reacted on her temper, though, for after an attack she was exasperating. Her invention was put to the rack to tease and offend.
The landlord sat at supper with sundry friends, in a kind of glass cage, with a genial indifference to arriv- ing guests; the waiters tumbled over the loose luggage in the hall; the travellers who had been turned away leaned gloomily against door-posts; and the landlady, surrounded by confusion, unconscious of responsibility, and animated only by the spirit of conversation, bandied high-voiced compliments with the voyageurs de com- merce.
On the 17th of January, 1595, Henry, in performance of what he had proclaimed, formally declared war against the King of Spain, forbade his subjects to have any com merce with him or his allies, and ordered them to make war on him for the future just as he persisted in making it on France.
We drove through the gate, and saw a handsome little boy astride a window-sill, with two pipes in his mouth, "Papa!" he shrieked, threw his pipes down, and dropped on the ground, to run after us. "Hasn't Arthur grown?" Aunt Merce asked. "He is almost seven." "Almost seven? Where have the years gone?" I looked about. I had been away so long, the house looked diminished.
But she must be speedy, for I promise her the mood grows on me as I become italianato; and I cannot predict when the other term of the proposition may be accomplished. For one thing, Lady Theologia, I praise you not. Sympathy seems to me of the essence, the healing touch an excellent thing in woman. But you told Virgil, "Io son fatta da Dio, sua merce, tale, Che la vostra miseria non mi tange."
I said, "but where is the family likeness?" Aunt Merce laughed. "There's the Morgesons," I continued, "I hate 'em all." "All?" she echoed; "you are like this new one." "And Grand'ther Warren" I continued. "Your talk," interrupted Aunt Merce, jumping up and walking about, "is enough to make him rise out of his grave."
Would it make me thankful if you only gave me potatoes without salt?" "Not unless your heart is right before God." "'The Lord my Shepherd is," sang Aunt Merce. I put my hands over my ears, and looked defiantly round the room. Its walls are no longer standing, and the hands of its builders have crumbled to dust. Some mental accident impressed this picture on the purblind memory of childhood.
I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so grief-struck." Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine.
We were in mother's winter room. She was in a low, chintz-covered chair; Aunt Merce sat by the window, in a straight-backed chair, that rocked querulously, and likewise covered with chintz, of a red and yellow pattern.
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