aunt the second person ever remained a grammatical superfluity.
Invariably she spoke not to but of a person, throwing out her
conversation in the form of commentary. This had the advantage
of permitting the party intended to ignore it as mere impersonal
philosophy. Seeing it was generally uncomplimentary, most people
preferred so to regard it; but my mother had never succeeded in
schooling herself to indifference.

"It's not a poky hole," she replied; "it's an old-fashioned house, near
the river."

"Plaistow marshes!" ejaculated my aunt, "calls it the river!"

"So it is the river," returned my mother; "the river is the other side
of the marshes."

"Let's hope it will always stop there," said my aunt.

"And it's got a garden," continued my mother, ignoring my aunt's last
remark; "which is quite an unusual feature in a London house. And it
isn't the East End of London; it is a rising suburb. And you won't make
me miserable because I am too happy."

"Drat the woman!" said my aunt, "why can't she sit down and give us our
tea before it's all cold?"

"You are a disagreeable thing!" said my mother.

"Not half milk," said my aunt. My aunt was never in the least disturbed
by other people's opinion of her, which was perhaps well for her.

For three days my mother packed and sang; and a dozen times a day
unpacked and laughed, looking for things wanted that were always found
at the very bottom of the very last box looked into, so that Anna,
waiting for a certain undergarment of my aunt's which shall be nameless,
suggested a saving of time:

"If I were you, ma'am," said Anna, "I'd look into the last box you're
going to look into first."

But it was found eventually in the first box-the box, that is, my mother
had intended to search first, but which, acting on Anna's suggestion,
she had reserved till the last. This caused my mother to be quite short
with Anna, who she said had wasted her time. But by Tuesday afternoon
all stood ready: we were to start early Wednesday morning.

That evening, missing my mother in the house, I sought her in the garden
and found her, as I had expected, on her favourite seat under the great
lime tree; but to my surprise there were tears in her eyes.

"But I thought you were glad we were going," I said.

"So I am," answered my mother, drying her eyes only to make room for
fresh tears.

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because I'm sorry to leave here."

Grown-up folks with their contradict