ty pastel.

"Why, he was quite a nice little boy," Beth exclaimed.

"Yes, nice and plump," Aunt Grace Mary rattled off breathlessly. "And
your grandmamma did those water-colours and those screens. That lovely
printing too; can you guess how she did it? With a camel's hair brush.
She did indeed. And she used to compose music. She was a very clever
woman. You are very like her."

"But I am not very clever," said Beth.

"No, dear; no, dear," Aunt Grace Mary rejoined, pulling herself up
hurriedly from this indiscretion. "But in the face. You are very like
her in appearance. And you must try. You must try to improve yourself.
Your uncle is always trying to improve himself. He reads 'Doctor
Syntax' aloud to us. In the evening it is our custom to read aloud and
converse."

An occasional phrase of Uncle James's would flow from Aunt Grace Mary
in this way, with incongruous effect.

"Do you try to improve yourself?" Beth asked.

"Yes, dear."

"How?"

"Oh, well--that reminds me. I must write a letter. You shall stay and
see me if you like. But you mustn't move or speak."

Beth, deeply interested, watched her aunt, who began by locking the
door. Then she slipped a pair of spectacles out of her pocket, and put
them on, after glancing round apprehensively as if she were going to
do something wrong. Then she sat down at a small bureau, unlocked a
drawer, and took out a little dictionary, unlocked another drawer and
took out a sheet of notepaper, in which she inserted a page of black
lines. Then she proceeded to write a letter in lead-pencil, stopping
often to consult the dictionary. When she had done, she took out
another sheet of a better quality, put the lines in it, and proceeded
to copy the letter in ink. She blotted the first attempt, but the next
she finished. She destroyed several envelopes also before she was
satisfied. But at last the letter was folded and sealed, and then she
carefully burnt every scrap of paper she had spoiled.

"I was educated in a convent in France," she said to Beth. "If you
were older you would know that by my handwriting. It is called an
Italian hand, but I learnt it in France. I was there five years."

"What else did you learn?" said Beth.

"Oh--reading. No--I could read before I went. But music, you know, and
French."

"Say some French," said Beth.

"Oh, I can't," Aunt Grace Mary answered. "But I can read it a little,
you know."

"I should like to hear you play," said Beth.

"