"She is a--a singularly interesting person. What vivacity! what readiness! what a fund of information on a variety of subjects! She put me to the blush a dozen times in a talk I had with her recently." "Have you been able to have any serious conversation with my aunt, Mr. Bliss?" asked Miss Phoebe, with a slight indication of frost in her tone. "I should be truly rejoiced to hear that such was the case." "A--well, perhaps not exactly serious," owned the little minister, smiling and blushing. "In fact,"--here he caught his wife's eye, and checked himself--"in fact,--a--she is an extremely interesting person!" he concluded, lamely. "Now, John, why should you stop?" cried Mrs. Bliss. "Mrs. Tree is the Miss Blyths' own aunt, and they must know her ever so much better than we do. She was just as funny as she could be, Miss Blyth. Deacon Weight had asked Mr. Bliss to call and reason with her on spiritual matters,--'wrestle' was what he said, but John told him he was no wrestler,--and so he went and tried; but he had hardly said a word--had you, John?--when Mrs. Tree asked him which he liked best, Shakespeare or the musical glasses--what _do_ you suppose she meant, Miss Vesta? And when he said Shakespeare, of course, she began talking about Hamlet, and Macready, and Mrs. Siddons, who gave her an orange when she was a little girl, and he never got in another word, did you, John? And Deacon Weight was so put out when he heard about it! I'm gl--" "Marietta, my love!" remonstrated Mr. Bliss, hastily, "you forget yourself. Deacon Weight is our senior deacon." "I'm sorry, John! but Mrs. Tree _is_ just as kind as she can be," the little wife went on, her eyes kindling as she spoke. "Oh!--no, I won't tell, John; you needn't be afraid. Why, she said that if I told she would set the parrot on me, and she meant it. That bird frightens me out of my wits. But she _is_ kind, and I never shall forget all she has done for us." "I understand that you are a poet, sir," the minister said, turning to Mr. Homer Hollopeter, and evidently desirous of changing the subject. "May I ask if the sonnet is your favorite form of verse?" Mr. Homer bridled and colored. "A--not at present, sir," he replied, modestly. "For some years I did feel that my--a--genius, if I may call it so, moved most freely in the fetters of the sonnet; but of late I have thought it well to seek--to employ--to--a--avail myself of the various forms in which the Muse enshrines herself. It--gives, if I may so express myself, more breadth of wing; more scope; more freedom; more"--he waved his hands--"circumambiency!" His hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket. "I am sure, Cousin Homer," said Miss Vesta, "our friends would be glad to hear some of your poetry, if you happen to have any with you."