. What! marry a tailor? The ninth part of a man,
that doubles itself down upon a board, with thimble, scissors, and
goose! Gracious!"

"I've heard girls talk before now, Kate; and I've seen them act,
too; and, if I am to judge from what I've seen, I should say that
you were as likely to marry a tailor as anybody else."

"I'd hang myself first!"

"Would you?"

"Yes, or jump into the river. Do any thing, in fact, before I'd
marry a tailor."

"Perhaps you would not object to a merchant tailor?"

"Perhaps I would, though! A tailor's a tailor, and that is all you
can make of him. 'Merchant tailor!' Why not say merchant shoemaker,
or merchant boot-black? Isn't it ridiculous?"

"Ah well, Kate," said Aunt Prudence, "you may be thankful if you get
an honest, industrious, kind-hearted man for a husband, be he a
tailor or a shoemaker. I've seen many a heart-broken wife in my day
whose husband was not a tailor. It isn't in the calling, child, that
you must look for honour or excellence, but in the man. As Burns
says--'The man's the goud for a' that.'"

"But a _man_ wouldn't stoop to be a tailor."

"You talk like a thoughtless, silly girl, as you are, Kate. But time
will take all this nonsense out of you, or I am very much mistaken.
I could tell you a story about marrying a tailor, that would
surprise you a little."

"I should like, above all things in the world, to hear a story of
any interest, in which a tailor was introduced."

"I think I could tell you one."

"Please do, aunt. It would be such a novelty. A very _rara avis_, as
brother Tom says. I shall laugh until my sides ache."

"If you don't cry, Kate, I shall wonder," said Aunt Prudence,
looking grave.

"Cry? oh, dear! And all about a tailor! But tell the story, aunt."

"Some other time, dear."

"Oh, no. I'm just in the humour to hear it now. I'm as full of fun
as I can stick, and shall need all this overflow of spirits to keep
me up while listening to the pathetic story of a tailor."

"Perhaps you are right, Kate. It may require all the spirits you can
muster," returned Aunt Prudence, in a voice that was quite serious.
"So I will tell you the story now."

And Aunt Prudence thus began:

A good many years ago,--I was quite a young girl then,--two children
were left orphans, at the age of eleven years. They were
twins--brother and sister. Their names I will call Joseph and Agnes
Fletcher. The death of their parents left them without friends or
relati