Miranda Sawyer had learned a few lessons in the last two years,
lessons which were making her (at least on her "good days") a
trifle kinder, and at any rate a juster woman than she used to
be. When she alighted on the wrong side of her four-poster in
the morning, or felt an extra touch of rheumatism, she was still
grim and unyielding; but sometimes a curious sort of melting
process seemed to go on within her, when her whole bony structure
softened, and her eyes grew less vitreous. At such moments
Rebecca used to feel as if a superincumbent iron pot had been
lifted off her head, allowing her to breath freely and enjoy the
sunshine.

"Well," she said finally, after staring first at Rebecca and then
at the porcupine quills, as if to gain some insight into the
situation, "well, I never, sence I was born int' the world, heerd
such a speech as you've spoke, an' I guess there probably never
was one. You'd better tell the minister what you said and see
what he thinks of his prize Sunday-school scholar. But I'm too
old and tired to scold and fuss, and try to train you same as I
did at first. You can punish yourself this time, like you used
to. Go fire something down the well, same as you did your pink
parasol! You've apologized and we won't say no more about it
today, but I expect you to show by extry good conduct how sorry
you be! You care altogether too much about your looks and your
clothes for a child, and you've got a temper that'll certainly
land you in state's prison some o' these days!"

Rebecca wiped her eyes and laughed aloud. "No, no, Aunt Miranda,
it won't, really! That wasn't temper; I don't get angry with