“Doxy, indeed! And before the servants! I am sure Johanna must have heard you, though she makes such a rattle in there with the rolling–pin, like a doctorʼs pestle and mortar. She always does when I come out, to pretend she is so busy; and most likely she has been listening for half an hour, and laughing at your flummery. What do I care about Acharnius?—now donʼt tell me any jokes, if you please, brother John; with butter on both your legs, too! Oh, if I could only put you in a passion! I might have some hopes of you then. But I should like to see the woman that could; you have so little self–respect”. “Eudoxia, that is the very converse of Senecaʼs proposition”. “Then Seneca didnʼt know how to converse, and I wonʼt be flouted with him. Seneca to me, indeed, or any other heathen! Let me tell you one thing, John Rosedew”—Miss Eudoxia now was wrathful, not nettlesome only, but spinous; perhaps it would be rude to hint that in this latter word may lurk the true etymon of “spinster”—“let me tell you one thing, and perhaps youʼll try to remember it; for, with all your wonderful memory, you never can tell to–morrow what I said to–day”. “Surely not, dear Doxy, because you talk so much. It is related of that same Seneca that he could repeat——” “Fiddlesticks. Now you want to turn off the home–truth you feel to be coming. But you shall have it, John Rosedew, and briefly, it is this: Although you do sit on the dresser, your taste is too eclectic. You are a very learned man, but your learning gilds foul idols. You spend all your time in pagans’ company, while the epistles and gospels have too little style for _you_”. “Oh, Aunt Eudoxia, how dare you talk to my papa like that, my own daddy, and me to hear you? And just now you flew into a pet because you fancied Johanna heard him call you ‘Doxy’. I am astonished at it, Aunt Doxy; and it is not true, not a word of it. Come with me, father, dearest, and we wonʼt say a word to her all the afternoon”. Even young Amy saw that her father was hit very hard. There was so much truth in the accusation, so much spiteful truth—among thy beauties, _nuda veritas_, a smooth skin is not one—that poor John felt as if Aristophanes were sewn up henceforth in a pig–sack. He slunk away quietly to his room, and tried to suck some roots Hebraic, whence he got no satisfaction. He never could have become a great theological scholar. After all, a man must do what God has shaped his mind for. So in a week John Rosedew got back to his native element; but sister Doxyʼs rough thrust made the dresser for many a month like the bottom of a pincushion, when the pins are long, and the bran has leaked out at the corner.