Now, some people don't believe in special mercies, but I have always thought there must have been something out of the common way for things to happen as they did the day Aunt Maria sprained her ankle. She sent over to the farm where we were living with my mother (who was a sensible woman, and carried on the farm much better than most men would have done, though that's neither here nor there) to ask if Sarah or me could be spared to go and look after her a bit, for the doctor said she couldn't put her foot to the ground for a week or more. Now, the minister I sit under always warns us against superstition, which, I take it, means believing more than you have any occasion to. And I'm not more given to it than most folks, but still I always have said, and I always shall say, that there's a special Providence above us, and it wasn't for nothing that Sarah was laid up with a quinsy that very morning. So I put a few things together--in Sarah's hat-tin, I remember, which was handier to carry than my own--and I went up to the cottage. Aunt was in bed, and whether it was the sprained ankle or the hot weather I don't know, but the old lady was cantankerous past all believing. 'Good-morning, aunt,' I said, when I went in, 'and however did this happen?' 'Oh, you've come, have you?' she said, without answering my question, 'and brought enough luggage to last you a year, I'll be bound. When I was young, a girl could go to spend a week without nonsense of boxes or the like. A clean shift and a change of stockings done up in a cotton handkerchief--that was good enough for us. But now, you girls must all be young ladies. I've no patience with you.' I didn't answer back, for answering back is a poor sort of business when the other person is able to make you pay for every idle word. Of course, it's different if you haven't anything to lose by it. So I just said-- 'Never mind, aunt dear. I really haven't brought much; and what would you like me to do first?' 'I should think you'd see for yourself,' says she, thumping her pillows, 'that there's not a stick in the house been dusted yet--no, nor a stair swep'.' So I set to to clean the house, which was cleaner than most people's already, and I got a nice bit of dinner and took it up on a tray. But no, that wasn't right, for I'd put the best instead of the second-best cloth on the tray. 'The workhouse is where you'll end,' says aunt. But she ate up all the dinner, and after that she seemed to get a little easier in her temper, and by-and-by fell off to sleep. I finished the stairs and tidied up the kitchen, and then I went to dust the parlour.