"To be wicked and old must be _so_ dreadful," I said, thoughtfully
shaking my head and casting my eyes to heaven.

"What are you thinking about, child?" she asked, jerking my hand
sharply. "Who is it that you call such hard names--'wicked and old'
forsooth? Answer me directly!"

"It was what you said a while ago about yourself I was thinking of, Mrs.
Austin," I replied. "To be more than half a hundred years old! It is so
many years to live; and then to be such a sinner, too--how hard it must
be! I always thought you were very good before; and I am sure you are
not gray and wrinkled and blear-eyed, like Granny Simpson!"

"Granny Simpson, indeed! You must be crazy, Miriam Monfort! Why, she is
eighty if she is an hour, and hobbles on a cane! I flatter myself I am
not infirm yet; and, if you call a well-preserved, middle-aged, English
woman, like me, _old_, your brains must be addled. Look at my hair, my
teeth, my complexion"--pausing suddenly before me and confronting me
fiercely. "See my step, my figure, and have more sense, if you _are_ a
little foreign Jewish child. As to sinfulness, we are all _sinful_
beings, more or less. To be _wicked_ is a very different thing from
sinful. I never told you I was wicked, child. What put that into your
head?"

"Oh, I thought they were the same thing. Which is the worst, Mrs.
Austin?" I asked, with unfeigned simplicity.

"There, Miriam, step on before! you walk too fast anyhow for me to-day.
Besides, your tongue wags too limberly by half. You always did ask queer