"My love," said she, "I have brought you your gloves."

"Oh, indeed, Auntie, I won't wear them," said Mary. "I couldn't be
plagued with gloves. Nobody wears them here."

"Mrs. Buckley wears them, and it would relieve my mind if you were to
put them on, my dear. I fear my lady's end was accelerated by,
unfortunately, in her last illness, catching sight of Lady Kate's hands
after she had been assisting her brother to pick green walnuts."

Mary was always on the eve of laughing at these aristocratic
recollections of her aunt; and to her credit be it said, she always
restrained herself, though with great difficulty. She, so wildly
brought up, without rule or guidance in feminine matters, could not be
brought to comprehend that prim line-and-rule life, of which her aunt
was the very impersonation. Nevertheless, she heard what Miss
Thornton had to say with respect; and if ever she committed an extreme
GAUCHERIE, calculated to set her aunt's teeth on edge, she always
discovered what was the matter, and mended it as far as she was able.

They stood on the lawn while the glove controversy was going on, and
a glorious prospect there was that bright spring morning. In one
direction the eye was carried down a long, broad, and rich vale,
intersected by a gleaming river, and all the way down set thick with
hamlet, farm, and church. In the dim soft distance rose the two massive
towers of a cathedral, now filling all the countryside with the gentle
melody of their golden-toned bells, while beyond them, in the misty
south, there was a gleam in the horizon, showing where the sky