But Uncle doesn't love or understand me; I am a burden to him, and I
must go where I can take care of myself. I can't be happy till I do,
for there's nothing here for me. I'm sick of this dull town, where
the one idea is eat, drink, and get rich; I don't find any friends
to help me as I want to be helped, or any work that I can do well;
so let me go, Aunty, and find my place, wherever it is."

"But I do need you, deary; and you mustn't think Uncle don't like
you. He does, only he don't show it; and when your odd ways fret
him, he ain't pleasant, I know. I don't see why you can't be
contented; I've lived here all my days, and never found the place
lonesome, or the folks unneighborly." And Aunt Betsey looked
perplexed by the new idea.

"You and I are very different, ma'am. There was more yeast put into
my composition, I guess; and, after standing quiet in a warm corner
so long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time, so
that I may turn out a wholesome loaf. You can't do this; so let me
go where it can be done, else I shall turn sour and good for
nothing. Does that make the matter any clearer?" And Christie's
serious face relaxed into a smile as her aunt's eye went from her to
the nicely moulded loaf offered as an illustration.

"I see what you mean, Kitty; but I never thought on't before. You be
better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes
bread poor stuff, like baker's trash; and too much workin' up makes
it hard and dry. Now fly 'round, for the big oven is most het, and
this cake takes a sight of time in the mixin'."

"You haven't said I might go, Aunty," began the girl, after a long