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 he won't have none on ye, and if ye do I guess ye'll find him a livin' stone sure enough. I wouldn't trust a soul on 'em more'n I would a heap o' black snakes."

This unkind and unmerited thrust of Aunt Polly's filled the measure. Her cup was full, and needed only the additional drop to make it run over, which she was about to add herself. To be sure she did not care for Ernest, oh no, of course she didn't, but then, what was it? she was miserably unhappy. She reproached herself for ever thinking he cared for her. As for Grace Blanche he might have her if he wished, of course he might, it was nothing to her.

Aunt Polly was what might be called an odd jobber. She did washing, house-cleaning, carpet mending, and whatever else of heavy work came in her way. Consequently she did not remain long in one place, and going from house to house gathered all the idle gossip, which lost nothing by repetition. It was her sole recreation, and people bore with her out of regard to her friendless position, and because her services were valuable in her line. Very few cared for what she said, knowing her loquacious propensities, and little reliance was placed on what she did say.

Ordinarily, Rosalind would not have given to her remarks a second thought, but the uncommon asperity with which they were spoken rendered them particularly annoying at a time when she needed to be soothed instead of irritated. She was vexed with her for this needless wound to her feelings, and vexed with herself for allowing so trifling an incident to disturb her. She tried to drive the whole subject