‘Mary,’ she went on impressively, closing the doors and glancing about the room to see if there were any listeners, ‘Mary, those children have been with me eight weeks, and I do—not—like—them. What are you going to do with me? Wait, I haven’t told you the whole truth,—I dislike them actively. As for my mother, she is not committed to any theory about the essential integrity of infancy, and she positively abhors them.’ ‘Then they are no more likable in the bosom of the family than they have been here?’ asked Mary, in a tone of disappointment. ‘More likable? They are less so! Do you see any change in me,—a sort of spiritual effulgence, a saintly radiance, such as comes after a long spell of persistent virtue? Because there ought to be, if my summer has served its purpose.’ ‘Poor dear rosy little martyr! Sit down and tell me all about it.’ ‘Well, we have kept a log, but—’ ‘“_We_?” What, Rhoda! did you drag your poor mother into the experiment?’ ‘Mother? No, she generally locked herself in her room when the twins were indoors, but—well, of course, I had help of one sort and another with them. I have held to your plan of discipline pretty well; at any rate, I haven’t administered corporal punishment, although, if I had whipped them whenever they actually needed it, I should have worn out all the young minister’s slippers.’ Mary groaned. ‘Then there was another young minister? It doesn’t make any difference, Rhoda, whether you spend your summers in the woods or by the sea, in the valleys or on the mountains, there is always a young minister. Have all the old ones perished off the face of the earth, pray? And what do the young ones see in you, you dear unregenerate, that they persist in following you about threatening my peace of mind and your future career? Well, go on!’