I had to give her another whirl, and by the time she got her breath it
was time to see about supper, and she has never referred to the subject
since.

Miss Susanna is a darling little lady of the old school (whatever the
old school was) and I love her, but I am of my time as she is of hers,
and I don't see her way any more than she sees mine. She ought to wear
hoop-skirts and brocaded silks and lace fichus and mits, and sit with
her beautiful hands folded in her lap and her tiny little feet on a
footstool, and instead she works from morning to night trying to help
the good-for-nothingest servants that were ever hired by tired ladies,
except Uncle Henson, and Aunt Mandy, the cook, who have been with her
for years and years. She's worn out. That's what's the matter with
Miss Susanna, and that selfish, lazy little piece of pinkness who is
now away doesn't lift her hand to help her unless it is to make a cake
occasionally. I don't know how to make cake and never expect to know,
as very good kinds can be bought, but I can wash dishes. I do it every
morning and she dries them, so limp Eliza can go up-stairs and clean up
the bedrooms, and we have a beautiful time talking about what a change
comes over human beings when they board. That is, I do the talking and
she shakes her head at me, but it does her good, as it gives sound to
things she can't say. Most of her time has to be spent in thinking
what to put in people's stomachs and fixing it to be put; and, from the
quantity that goes in, boarders must have much better appetites than
people who keep house. They eat and yet are never full. There'll be
no hope of heaven for me if I ever have to keep boarders. I'd sweep
them out with a broom certainly once a week. That is, in my mind, if
my hands didn't. But Miss Susanna will never sweep them out. The
sanctuary in which I let out for her is the pantry, and all the things
she won't say I say for her. Yesterday she laughed so she broke a cup.