people writ her letters of
condolence but _I_ just sot down and writ her one of congratulation.
There's the Presbyterian manse in the hollow. Mr. Bentwell's our
minister. He's a good man and he'd be a rather nice one if he didn't
think it was his duty to be a little miserable all the time. He won't
let his wife wear a fashionable hat, and his daughter can't fix her
hair the way she wants to. Even being a minister can't prevent a man
from being a crank. Here's Ebenezer Milgrave coming. You take a good
look at him. He used to be insane for years. He believed he was dead
and used to rage at his wife because she wouldn't bury him. _I'd_
a-done it."

Aunt Philippa looked so determinedly grim that I could almost see her
with a spade in her hand. I laughed aloud at the picture summoned up.

"Yes, it's funny, but I guess his poor wife didn't find it very
humorsome. He's been pretty sane for some years now, but you never can
tell when he'll break out again. He's got a brother, Albert Milgrave,
who's been married twice. They say he was courting his second wife
while his first was dying. Let that be as it may, he used his first
wife's wedding ring to marry the second. That's the men for you."

"Don't you know _any_ good husbands, Aunt Philippa?" I asked
desperately.

"Oh, yes, lots of 'em--over there," said Aunt Philippa sardonically,
waving her whip in the direction of a little country graveyard on a
distant hill.

"Yes, but _living_--walking about in the flesh?"

"Precious few. Now and again you'll come across a man whose wife won't
put up with any nonsense and he _has_ to be respectable. But the most
of 'em are poor bargains--poor bargains."

"And are all the wives saints?" I persisted.

"Laws, no, but they're too good for the men," retorted Aunt Philippa,
as she turned in at her own gate. Her house was close to the road and
was painted such a vivid green that the landscape looked faded by
contrast. Across the gable end of it was the legend, "Philippa's
Farm," emblazoned in huge black letters two feet long. All its
surroundings were very neat. On the kitchen doorstep a patchwork cat
was making a grave toilet. The groundwork of the cat was white, and
its spots were black, yellow, grey, and brown.

"There's Joseph," said Aunt Philippa. "I call him that because his
coat is of many colours. But I ain't no lover of cats. They're too
much like the men to suit me."

"Cats have always been supposed to be peculiarly femini