hood
as fair, if I had need to send to _Paternoster_ Row [Note 2] for it, and
feasted mine eyen thereon. It should not have talked when I desired
quietness, nor have threaped [scolded] at me when I did aught pleased it
not."

"That speech is rare like a man, _Joyce_," saith my Lady _Stafford_.

"Dear heart, _Dulcie_, dost think I count all women angels, by reason I
am one myself?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I know better, forsooth."

"Methinks, _Aunt_, I shall follow your example," saith _Ned_, winking on
me, that was beside him. "Women be such ill matter, I'll sheer off from
'em."

"Well, lad, thou mayest do a deal worser," saith Aunt _Joyce_: "yet am I
more afeared of _Wat_ than thee."

"Is _Wat_ the more like to wed a _French_ hood?" saith _Ned_.

"I reckon so much," saith she, "or a box of perfume, or some such
rubbish. Eh dear, this world! _Ned_, 'tis a queer place: and the
longer thou livest the queerer shalt thou find it."

"'Tis a very pleasant place, _Aunt_, by your leave," said I.

"Thou art not yet seventeen, _Edith_," saith she: "and thou hast not
seen into all the dusty corners, nor been tangled in the spiders'
webs.--Well, _Lettice_, I reckon _Aubrey_ gave consent?"

"Oh ay," saith _Mother_, "in case _Milisent_ were agreeable."

"And were _Milisent_ agreeable?" asks my Lady _Stafford_.

"I think so much," made answer _Mother_, and smiled.

"None save a blind bat should have asked that," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"But thou hast worn blinkers, _Dulcie_, ever sith I knew thee. Eh,
lack-a-daisy! but that is fifty year gone, or not far thence."

"Three lacking," quoth my Lady _Stafford_.

"I'll tell you what, we be growing old women!" saith Aunt _Joyce. "Ned_
and _Edith_, ye ungracious loons, what do ye a-laughing?"

"I cry you mercy, _Aunt_, I could not help it," said I, when I might
speak: "you said it as though you had discovered the same but that
instant minute."

"Well, I had," saith she. "And so shall you, afore you come to sixty
years: or if not, woe betide you."

"Dear heart, _Aunt_, there is a long road betwixt sixteen and sixty!"
cried I, yet laughing.

"There is, _Edith_," right grave, Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer. "A long
stretch of road: and may-be steep hills, child, and heavy moss, and
swollen rivers to ford, and snowstorms to breast on the wild moors. Ah,
how little ye young things know! I reckon most folk should count my
life an easy one, beside other: but I would not live it