she does see. I believe she quite horrified my
Uncle Charles, one day, when he carried us to see a collection of
beautiful paintings. We stopped before one, which my Uncle Charles told
us was thought a great deal of, and had cost a mint of money.

"What's it all about?" said my Aunt Kezia.

"'Tis a picture of the Holy Family," he answered, "by the great painter
Rubens."

"Now, stop a bit: who's what?" said my Aunt Kezia, and set herself to
study it. "Who is that old man that hasn't shaved himself?"

"That, Madam, is Saint Joseph."

"Never heard of him before. Oh, do you mean Joseph the carpenter? I
see. Well, and who is that woman with the child on her knee? Why ever
does not she put him some more clothes on? He'll get his death of
cold."

"My dear Madam, that is the Blessed Virgin!"

"I hope it isn't," said my Aunt Kezia, bluntly. "I'll go bail she kept
her linen better washed than that. But what's that queer thing
sprawling all over the sky?"

"The Angel Gabriel, Madam."

"I hope he hasn't flown in here and seen this," said my Aunt Kezia. "I
should say, if he have, he didn't feel flattered by his portrait."

My Aunt Kezia did not seem to care for fine things--smart clothes,
jewels, and splendid coaches, or anything like that. She was interested
in the lions at the Tower, and she liked to see any famous person of
whom my Uncle Charles could tell her; but for Ranelagh she said she did
not care twopence. There were men and women plenty wherever you went,
and as to silks and laces, she could see them any day over a mercer's
counter. Vauxhall was still worse, and Spring Gardens did not please
her any better.

But when, in going through the Tower, we came to the axe which beheaded
my Lady Jane Grey, she showed no lack of interest in that. And the next
day, when my Uncle Charles said he would show us some of the fine things
in the City, and we were driving in Grandmamma's coach towards Newgate,
my Aunt Kezia wanted to know what the open space was; and my Uncle
Charles told her,--"Smithfield."

"Smithfield!" cried she. "Pray you, Mr Desborough, bid your coachman
stop. I would liever see this than a Lord Mayor's Show."

"My dear Madam, there is nothing to see," answered my Uncle Charles, who
seemed rather perplexed. "This is not a market-day."

"There'll be plenty I can see!" was my Aunt Kezia's reply; and, my Uncle
Charles pulling the check-string, we alighted. My Aunt Kezia stood a
momen