Aunt Amy could not remember the words; only Betty had told her that I had found fault with the housekeeping, and said that when I was mistress I would have things thus and so. I began to see daylight. "Dear aunt, I will tell you how it was," said I. "We were all gathering lavender-flowers for the still, and I saw that Peggy, the still-room maid, had been crying, and asked what was the matter. She said the mistress had been scolding her because she had on ragged stockings, and because she did not keep her head neat; and Betty asked me if I did not think that was hard on the poor girl, when she had so much to, do. And I said no: if I were her mistress I would make her knit her own hose and wear a clear-starched cap every day, as the maids do in Normandy. Then Meg laughed, and said I would be a pattern housekeeper, no doubt; and I said I did not believe I should ever be as good-natured as you were. That was the whole of it. I am sure nothing was farther from my thoughts than any disrespect; and as to your housekeeping, I think it is as perfect as can be—only, of course, many of the ways are different from ours, and when I notice them 'tis natural to speak of them." "Betty made much more of the matter than that," said my aunt. "Well, sister Meg, I will have a cot-bed sent up, and you can place it where you please. I am sure I want every one under my roof to be comfortable, each in their degree. But another thing I must speak of." Aunt Amy was like many other easy-going folks: when she got started she never knew when to stop. "I don't want you, Agnes—I mean Vevette, or whatever your name is—I don't want you turning my girls' heads with romances and plays and stories of London gaieties and London fine gentlemen and ladies. If you have a taste for such matters, it is a pity you had not stayed with your uncle, and married some fine gentleman about the court, instead of poor Andrew, whose estate will stand no such doings, as I warn you beforehand. There, I want no answer; but don't do it again." And with that she bustled away. "What does it all mean?" I asked, when I was left alone with my mother. "It means what I might have considered before we came here—that no one house was ever yet large enough for two families," said my mother. "But what is this about turning heads with stories about London?"