When he came home nothing would serve him but that he must read us the poems he had been speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged him in his proposal, I thought, because she wished me to hear his beautiful reading, of which she had boasted; but she afterward said it was because she had got to a difficult part of her crotchet, and wanted to count her stitches without having to talk. Whatever he had proposed would have been right to Miss Matey; although she did fall sound asleep within five minutes after he began a long poem called “Locksley Hall,” and had a comfortable nap, unobserved, till he ended; when the cessation of his voice wakened her up, and she said, feeling that something was expected, and that Miss Pole was counting: “What a pretty book!” “Pretty! madam! it’s beautiful! Pretty, indeed!” “Oh, yes! I meant beautiful!” said she, fluttered at his disapproval of her word. “It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr. Johnson’s my sister used to read—I forget the name of it; what was it, my dear?” turning to me. “Which do you mean, ma’am? What was it about?” “I don’t remember what it was about, and I’ve quite forgotten what the name of it was; but it was written by Dr. Johnson, and was very beautiful, and very like what Mr. Holbrook has just been reading.” “I don’t remember it,” said he, reflectively, “but I don’t know Dr. Johnson’s poems well. I must read them.” As we were getting into the fly to return, I heard Mr. Holbrook say he should call on the ladies soon, and inquire how they got home; and this evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matey at the time he said it; but after we had lost sight of the old house among the trees, her sentiments toward the master of it were gradually absorbed into a distressing wonder as to whether Martha had broken her word, and seized on the opportunity of her mistress’s absence to have a “follower.” Martha looked good, and steady, and composed enough, as she came to help us out; she was always careful of Miss Matey, and to-night she made use of this unlucky speech: “Eh! dear ma’am, to think of your going out on an evening in such a thin shawl! It is no better than muslin. At your age, ma’am, you should be careful.” “My age!” said Miss Matey, almost speaking crossly, for her; for she was usually gentle. “My age! Why, how old do you think I am, that you talk about my age?” “Well, ma’am! I should say you were not far short of sixty; but folks’ looks is often against them—and I’m sure I meant no harm.” “Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss Matey, with grave emphasis; for probably the remembrance of her youth had come very vividly before her this day, and she was annoyed at finding that golden time so far away in the past.