‘Indeed, my dear, I do. My dearest aunt Judson has left me a nice little independence--and at my age you would hardly expect a person to go on working.’ ‘There need be no work,’ said Beatrix, eagerly. ‘I need not trouble you any more with my studies. I can read to myself instead of to you. It will make no difference. You can have all your mornings free.’ ‘You cannot suppose that, so long as I remained with you, I could neglect the improvement of your mind, Beatrix,’ severely exclaimed Miss Scales, fully believing in her own style of grinding--quite forty years behind the spirit of the age--as an improving process. ‘No, my dear, that is not the consideration. I want to live in my own house. Dear aunt Judson has left me a _bijou_ cottage at Exmouth, and all her beautiful furniture, and I feel it a duty I owe to myself, after all these years of scholastic toil, to settle down. I shall be on the spot to see after Floss and Fido, whom I should not like to leave to the care of a hireling, however well provided for.’ This was a stray javelin flung at the faithful servant, to whom Mrs. Judson had left five hundred pounds in consols. ‘Oh, very well, Miss Scales, if you like Floss and Fido better than me,’ said Beatrix, proudly, giving the reins a little shake that sent Puck into a canter. ‘Beatrix, are you trying to murder me?’ cried the terrified Miss Scales. ‘Stop that pony this instant, or I’ll take the reins out of your hands.’ ‘If you do that we shall certainly be in the ditch. There, Puck is quiet enough now.’ ‘As to my liking Floss and Fido better than you,’ pursued Miss Scales with her judicial air, when Puck had resumed his accustomed trot, ‘that is a very unfair way of putting it. I have my own happiness to consider.’ ‘Yes,’ said Beatrix, ‘that seems the first consideration with everybody.’ ‘If we cannot discuss this question without temper, Beatrix----’ remonstrated Miss Scales. ‘We cannot. At least, I cannot,’ answered Beatrix, quickly. ‘You have lived with me ever since I can remember. Yes, one of the first things I can remember is standing at your knee on a hot summer morning droning over a selection of the psalms, in words of one syllable. That psalm about the wicked man and a green bay tree, for instance. I never see a bay tree without remembering how hard it was to learn to read. You have lived with me ever since I was in my cradle, and yet you talk of leaving me as coolly as if it were nothing to you.’ ‘My dear Beatrix, the parting will be very painful to me; but it would be more painful to remain.’ ‘Why?’ asked Beatrix, fiercely. ‘Because I could not bear to see people look coldly upon you. I could not live in a house under such a cloud as that which overshadows your house.’ ‘I see,’ cried Beatrix, her face hardening. ‘You believe what these people believe.’ ‘I have not said that.’