Thinking that he fully understood the reply which he was expected to
make, and anxious to make amends for his former stupidity, Uncle Peter
promptly replied, "No, madam I did not-_ly_.'"

The look of horror which Sally's face assumed, convinced Uncle Peter
that he had failed in his attempts at speaking grammatically, and with
a sudden determination never again to try, he precipitately left the
house, and for the next two hours amused himself by playing "Bruce's
Address" upon his old cracked fiddle. From that time Sal gave up all
hopes of educating Uncle Peter, and confined herself mostly to
literary efforts, of which we shall speak hereafter.

The night following Sal's first acquaintance with Mary, Alice cried
until nearly day dawn. The milk which Miss Grundy's stinginess allowed
her, was not particularly conducive to her health, and besides that,
she missed the invigorating bath to which she had been accustomed
during her mother's lifetime. Mary had spoken of it two or three
times, but Miss Grundy only jerked her shoulders, saying, "she guessed
she wasn't going to have such a slush around the house. You can bring
her down," said she, "to the sink, and pump as much water on her as
you like;" so Mary said no more about it until the night of which we
have spoken, and then she determined on making one more effort. But
her heart almost failed her, when, on entering the kitchen, she saw
how the chairs and Miss Grundy's shoulders danced round. She well knew
that something was wrong, and attributing it to Alice's crying, she
awaited in silence for the storm to burst.

"Rind," said Miss Grundy to the girl with crooked feet, who was
washing the milk-pail, "ain't there nary spare room in the dark