When I had told my aunt of the indignity put upon me, and of the fading remembrance thus recalled, she said, “John Wynne has not changed, nor will he ever.” She declared that, after all, it was her fault--to have treated me as if I were a man, and to have given me too much money. I shook my head, but she would have it she was to blame, and then said of a sudden, “Are you in debt, you scamp? Did John pray for me!” I replied that I owed no one a penny, and that she had not been remembered. She was glad I was not in debt, and added, “Never play unless you have the means to pay. I have been very foolish. That uneasy woman, Bessy Ferguson, must needs tell me so. I could have slapped her. They will have thy sad case up in Meeting, I can tell thee.” “But what have I done!” I knew well enough. “Tut! you must not talk that way to me; but it is my fault. Oh, the time I have had with your mother! I am not fit, it seems, to be left to take care of you. They talk of leaving you with Abijah Hapworthy--sour old dog! I wish you joy of him!” “Good heavens!” I exclaimed; for among my aunt’s gay friends I had picked up such exclamatory phrases as, used at home, would have astonished my father. “Rest easy,” said Mistress Wynne; “it is not to be. I have fought your battle, and won it. But I have had to make such promises to your father, and--woe is me!--to your mother, as will damn me forever if you do not help me to keep them. I can fib to your father and not care a snap, but lie to those blue eyes I cannot.” “I will try, Aunt Gainor; indeed I will try.” Indeed, I did mean to. “You must, you must. I am to be a sort of godmother-in-law to you, and renounce for you the world, the flesh, and the devil; and that for one of our breed! I shall be like a sign-post, and never go the way I point. That was Bessy Ferguson s malice. Oh, I have suffered, I can tell you. It is I, and not you, that have repented.” “But I will; I do.” “That is all very well; but I have had my whipping, and you got off yours.” “What do you mean, aunt?”