patchwork quilt, made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegant
silks, of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory families
had their gowns and cardinals, and other paraphernalia, made. Aunt
Molly had been a mantuamaker to the old "quality," and she could show
us a piece of Madam Vassall's gown on that wonderful and brilliant
piece of work, the bed-quilt. "On that hint" she would speak.

"A-haw-awr! They were _real gentle_ folks that lived in _them_ days.
A-haw-awr! I declare, I could e'en-amost kneel down and kiss the very
airth they trod on, as they went by my house to church. Polite, _they
wor!_ Yes, they knew what true politeness was; and to my thinking true
politeness is next to saving grace."

Once a year, or so, Aunt Molly would dress up in her best gown, a
black silk, trimmed with real black lace, and a real lace cap, relics
of the good old days of Toryism and brocade and the real gentry, and
go to make an afternoon visit to one of her neighbors. After the usual
salutations, the lady would ask her visitor to take off her bonnet and
stay the afternoon, knowing by the "rig" that such was her intention.
But she liked to be urged a little, so she would say, "O, I only came
out for a little walk, it was so pleasant, and stopped in to see how
little Henry did, since his sickness. You know I always call him _my
boy_." (Yes, Aunt Molly, the only boy in the universe that, for you,
had any good in him.) After the proper amount of urging, she would lay
aside her bonnet and black satin mantle, saying, "Well, I didn't come
here to get my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will stay."

Aunt Molly's _asides_ were often amusing. She was so very deaf that
she could not hear her own voice, and often imagined she was
whispering, when she could be heard across the room.