“I don’t understand,” returned my aunt. “I didn’t know that we had anything to do with history.” “What you are talking about occurred in George the Fourth’s reign. There were wars and civil dissensions in those days which Charlie would rather hear about.” “Don’t let your husband silence you,” said I. “Of course he was absurdly in love with you. What do you think, Conny?” “I didn’t live in those days,” answered Conny absently. “Well, I am very happy,” said my aunt, passing her hand through her husband’s arm. “I only hope that Conny may have my good fortune,” and she glanced askance at her daughter and me. “Confess, my dear, that you would rather have had Edward,” exclaimed my uncle with a deep smile. “You don’t mean what you say. But even if I had, I should only have acted as most women do, who invariably want the wrong man.” Conny looked at me from under her parasol and smiled. What did she mean by smiling? “There is a great deal of nonsense talked about marriage,” said my uncle. “My idea is, that every young man should get a wife as soon as he can.” “That’s my idea, too,” said I. “And mine,” exclaimed my aunt. Thus fortified--how strong a man feels in his wife’s acquiescence! but then she must often contradict him--my uncle continued, “For what is a man without a home?” “A vagabond,” cried my aunt. “Quite right, my dear; for a vagabond means a wanderer.” “I am always suspicious of men without homes--of men who live in clubs or lodgings,” observed my aunt. “Of course I am not speaking of young men who haven’t had time to get married,” she added apologetically. “A man is not respectable without a home,” said my uncle. “And he can’t have a home without a wife,” I answered. “How hot it is!” exclaimed Conny, a little peevishly. “This road is so dreadfully dazzling to the eyes, that I can hardly see. What a pity people mayn’t use their carriages on a Sunday!” “No, no! we ought all to go afoot to God’s house,” said my uncle. “The day we dedicate to Him should be a levelling day--a reminder to rich and poor of their common mortality. But little piety will be left in the bosom of a hard-working labourer who, on quitting his place in the free seats, comes out and sees the rich saints luxuriously rolling homewards in fine carriages.” “Remember what your papa says, Conny,” remarked my aunt. “I don’t see why poor people should feel more on Sundays than on week days,” answered Conny. “Well, they do,” said my aunt. “This is better,” I exclaimed, as we turned into the long shady lane that led to my uncle’s house. But Conny seemed rather sulky, and for the rest of the walk remained silent.