The effect of this announcement astonished Beth. The Misses Keene, instead of being interested, all looked at her as if they did not like her, and Anne burst out laughing. When they got in, Anne told Mrs. Caldwell, who flushed suddenly, and covered her mouth with her handkerchief. "Yes, mamma," Mildred exclaimed with importance, "Beth did say so. And Mary tossed her head, and Sophia sneered." "What is sneered?" Beth demanded importunately. "What is sneered?" "O Beth! don't bother so," Mildred exclaimed irritably. "It's when you curl up your lip." "Beth, how could you be so naughty?" Mrs. Caldwell said at last from behind her handkerchief. "Don't you know you should never repeat things you hear said? A lady never repeats a private conversation." "What's a private conversation?" said Beth. Mrs. Caldwell gave her a broad definition, during which she lowered her handkerchief, and Beth discovered that she was trying not to smile. This was Beth's first lesson in honour, which was her mother's god, and she felt the influence of it all her life. Later in the day, Beth was curled up on the window-seat among the fuchsias, looking out. Behind the thatched cabins opposite, the sombre mountains rolled up, dark and distinct, to the sky; but Beth would not look at them if she could help it, they oppressed her. It was a close afternoon, and the window was wide open. A bare-legged woman, in a short petticoat, stood in an indolent attitude leaning against a door-post opposite; a young man in low shoes, light blue stockings, buff knee-breeches, a blue-tailed coat with brass buttons, and a soft high-crowned felt hat, came strolling up the street with his hands in his pockets. "Hallo, Biddy," he remarked, as he passed the woman, "you're all swelled." "Yes," she answered tranquilly, "I've been drinking buttermilk." "Well, let's hope it'll be a boy," he rejoined. The woman looked up and down the street complacently.