at's the matter, Cely?--Oh!" For there stood the funniest old woman
that Cely or Miss Melville had ever seen. She had on a black dress, very
long and very scant, that looked as if it were made out of an old
waterproof cloak. Over that, she wore a curious drab-silk sack, somewhat
faded and patched, with all the edges of the seams outside. Over that, was
a plaid red-and-green shawl, tied about her waist. There was a little
black shawl over that, and a green tippet wound twice around her throat
with the ends tucked in under the shawl. She had a pair of black mitts on
her hands, and she carried a basket. Her face no one could see, for it was
covered with a thick green veil, tied closely about her bonnet.

Cely gave a little scream, and ran behind the door. Miss Melville stepped
down from the platform, and went to meet the visitor.

"Good arternoon," said the old woman, in a very shrill voice.

"Good afternoon," said Miss Melville, politely.

"I come to see the young uns," piped the old woman. "I ben deown teown fur
some eggs, an'clock I heerd the little creaturs a sayin'clock of their
lessons as I come by, an'clock thinks says I to myself, says I, bless
their dear hearts, I'll go in an'clock see 'em, says I, an'clock I'll
thank ye kindly for a seat, for I'm pretty nigh beat out."

The scholars all began to laugh. Miss Melville, somewhat reluctantly,
handed her visitor a chair by the door, but did not ask her upon the
platform, as the visitor seemed to expect.

"There's a drefful draught here on my neck," she muttered, discontentedly;
"an'clock I'm terribly afflicted with rheumatiz mostly. Can't see much of
the young uns here, nuther."

"I doubt if there is much here that will interest you," observed Miss
Melville, looking at her keenly. "You may rest yourself, and then I think
you had better go. Visitors always disturb the children."

"Bless their dear hearts!" cried the old woman, shrilly. "They needn't be
afraid of me--_I_ wouldn't hurt 'em. Had a little angel boy once myself;
he's gone to Californy now, an'clock I'm a lone, lorn widdy. I say--little
gal!" and the stranger pointed her finger (it trembled a little) at Sarah
Rowe, who had grown quite red in the face with her polite efforts not to
laugh. "Little gal, whar's yer manners?--laughin'clock at a poor ole
creetur like me! Come out here, and le's hear ye say that beautiful psalm
of Dr. Watts--now!"

"How doth the little busy bee!"

But just then something