Oh, how weary I got of her endless talk about these matters--the things themselves were bad enough, though I didn’t mind them so much (only I _did_ get very tired). I was willing to wash and rinse the dishcloth till it was sweet and white as a handkerchief, but did not like washing and rinsing it over again after I got back to the sitting room. I was always tempted to shirk polishing the stove, but she was sure to detect it, or I dare say I should have slighted it more frequently, for I never liked to soil my hands. But she had a way of commending me that recompensed a good deal; and if there were criticisms, they were tactfully made: “Dear, when you have rested a little I wish you would stand the broom up the other way, you know it wears out sooner to rest on the splint end.” “You dusted behind the mirror carefully, didn’t you? but when you get up, won’t you just straighten it a wee bit?” “Now, after you have had a good rest, won’t you sweep off the sidewalk?--I see the leaves have fallen a good deal to-day.” I pitied her, and I was meek in those days, but I marvel now at my long-suffering. She was unhappy, but tried to conceal this, making pitiful excuses which I saw through. Later she knew that I divined her troubles, yet we each kept up a pretense of not seeing things as they were. It was easier for her in more ways than one to have me there. I learned later that that was why my parents let me stay with her. One day, calling me to her, with much preliminary talk, she said she was going to tell me some things that I was old enough to know, which my mother wished me to know. She then explained the mysteries of the physiological changes of pubescence. My cheeks began to blaze. I suppose she saw that she was late with her information, and, with less than her usual tact, asked outright if I knew about it already; and I, having learned it from older girls, along with forbidden things, and thinking it something to be ashamed of, lied to her, pretending I did not know what she meant. Of course she knew better, but not betraying this, explained it all in a judicious, womanly way, divesting it for me of the false shame with which I had come to associate it. That day, or later, I broke down and confessed that I had known about it before, and we were even better friends than ever after that.