stone-blind, and dependent on three heartless
hussies for all her mercies in this life; but no, thank goodness! she
had friends that would see she did not go absolutely to the wall, and
would never suffer her to be imposed on by a parcel of girls who didn't
care whether she lived or died--who perhaps would rather she did
die--who stood open-handed for her bequests; she would leave her money
to the almshouse, and if we wanted it we could go and get it there! And
after that, to be sure, Aunt Pen would have a fit of remorse for her
words, and confess her sin chokingly, and have us all come separately
and forgive her, and would say she was the wretchedest woman on the face
of the earth, that she should live undesired until her friends were all
tired, and then die unlamented; and would burst into tears and cry
herself into a tearing headache, and have ice on her head and a blister
on the back of her neck, and be quite confident that now she was really
going off with congestion of the brain.

After that, for a day or two, she would be in a heavenly frame of mind
with the blister and cabbage leaves and simple cerate, and a couple of
mirrors by which to examine the rise and fall of the blister; and,
having had a hint of real illness, she would consent quite smilingly to
the act of convalescence, and a descent to the healthy region of the
parlors once more.

But no sooner were we all gay and happy in the house again, running out
as we pleased, beginning to think of parties and drives and theatres and
all enjoyment--and rather unobservant, as young folks are apt to be
unobservant of Aunt Pen's slight habitual pensiveness in the absence of
guests or excitement, and of her ways generally--than Aunt Pen would
challenge some lobster-salad to mortal combat, and, of course, come out
floored by the colic. A little whiskey then; and as a little gave so
much ease, she would try a great deal. The result always was a
precipitate retreat up-stairs, a howling hysteric, bilious cramps, the
doctor, a subcutaneous injection of morphine in her arm; then chattering
like a magpie, relapsed into awful silence, and, convinced that the
morphine had been carried straight to her heart, a composing of her
hands and feet, an injured dismissal of every soul from the room, with
the assurance that we should find her straight and stiff and stone-dead
in the morning.

We never did. For, as we seldom had opportunity of an undisturbed
night's rest, we usually