"Shut up the old shell, Mercy," said father. "Come, and live with us."

She was rejoiced at the prospect, for the life at our house was
congenial, and she readily and gratefully consented. She came in a few
days, with a multitude of boxes, and her plants. Mother established
her in the room next the stairs--good place for her, Veronica said,
for she could be easily locked out of our premises. The plants were
placed on a new revolving stand, which stood on the landing-place
beneath the stair window. Veronica was so delighted with them that she
made amicable overtures to Aunt Mercy, and never quarreled with her
afterward, except when she was ill. She entreated her to leave off her
bombazine dresses; the touch of them interfered with her feelings for
her, she said; in fact, their contact made her crawl all over.

Aunt Mercy took upon herself many of mother's irksome cares; such
as remembering where the patches and old linen were--the hammer and
nails; watching the sweetmeat pots; keeping the run of the napkins and
blankets; packing the winter clothing, and having an eye on mice and
ants, moth and mold. Occasionally she read a novel; but was faithful
to all the week-day meetings, making the acquaintance thereby of
mother's tea-drinking friends, who considered her an accomplished
person, because she worked lace so beautifully, and had _such_ a
faculty for raising plants! Mother left the house in her charge, and
made several journeys with father this year. This period was perhaps
her happiest. The only annoyance, visible to me, that I can remember,
was one between her and father on the subject of charity. He was for
giving to all needy persons, while she only desired to bestow it on
the deserving, but they had renounced the wish of manufacturing
each other's habits and opinions. Whether mother ever desired the