"Why, maman, you know how Rosamond is—how she is always longing to hear about places one has seen. The night before last I said I had told her everything I could think of about La Manche and Jersey, and I should have to begin upon London. So I told her of the parks and the palace and other places where I went with my uncle and aunt and with Mr. and Mrs. Pepys. Then Betty began asking me whether my uncle and aunt did not see a deal of company, and so I told her something about that, and about the dresses in the park, and so on. Rosamond did not care to hear, and went away to her book, but Betty kept me telling a long time. And last night she asked me about it again, and whether I would not have liked to live with any aunt Jemima in London." "And what did you say?" asked my mother. "I said, 'Not to leave you;' and besides, since I had come down here and learned to know the people, I liked the place; and so I do. Only I shall not like it, I am sure, if my aunt turns against me." "Let us hope she will not," said my mother. "Sister Amy is a good creature, but she has an oddity of disposition which belongs to her family. She will let herself be prejudiced against her best friend by any mischief-maker who will take the pains to do it. Her sister, who was my great friend when we were young, was just so. She made a hasty marriage, against the wishes of her father and of her husband's family, and though they forgave her afterward, she was for some time in a good deal of trouble. I stood by her through all, yet she let herself be altogether set against me by some of her husband's relations, who had themselves said the most shameful things about her, even affecting her reputation as a virtuous woman." "She must have been very silly," said I. "In that respect she certainly was. But, my Vevette, let me hear no more of these talks with Betty about London. They are not very good for yourself, who have, I fear, now and then a longing back-look to the courts of Egypt, and I doubt their being good for Betty herself. You had best avoid her company, so far as you can without offence, and above all do not have any confidences with her. Margaret and Rosamond are as open as the day, but unless I much misread poor Betty, she is a born mischief-maker." Here the conversation ended. That evening Betty began again to ask me about London, having drawn me away from the rest of the young folks who were assembled on the green; but I gave her short answers, and at last plainly told her that I could say no more about the matter. "But why not?" asked Betty. "You talked long enough about it last night." "Yes, and you went and told your mother, and she lectured me this morning about turning your head with stories of London tine gentlemen." Betty assumed an air of innocent surprise. "Did you not want me to tell, then?" said she. "I never thought of that. I have no secrets from my mother."