"Do see here, Margaret," said she, as we entered. "What ails this peppermint? See how foul it runs." "The still is too hot, I think," said my mother, examining it; "and your peppermint is rather old. I should begin again, and with some smaller shoots. But, sister, Vevette hath something to say to you." "About what?" asked my aunt absently, still busy with the refractory still; and then, recollecting herself, "Oh, about the book. Well, then, child, I forgive you, only don't do it again. I know I was warm myself, and said too much, but that is only my way. There, run, that's a good maid, and cut me some nice lengths of the peppermint. You have more sense about gathering of herbs, than any of the others—only don't draggle your petticoats. Why, what ails the child?" catching sight of my face. "She looks as if she had had an illness." "She has been very much distressed about this affair," said my mother; "and so have I; but I think if I were to explain the matter to you as she has done to me—" "Oh, let bygones be bygones," interrupted my aunt. "I hate explanations; and, as I said, I was over-warm. Do you want to cut the herbs, child? Do just as you please." "Yes, aunt, I shall like it," I answered, glad of an excuse to get into the fresh air. I was at once pleased and vexed that my aunt should make so little of the matter. I went down to the peppermint-bed which grew under the shade of a yew hedge, and was busy choosing out the very best shoots when I heard voices on the other side of the hedge. "I shall never ask her to help in the school again—never!" said Margaret. "I could not forgive myself, if she should corrupt the children." "If it had been anything else," said Andrew, in a voice of deep dejection; "anything but deception." "To read such a wicked book, too," said Margaret. "How do you know it was so very wicked, after all?" asked Rosamond. "Oh, I looked at it last night as it lay on the table," said Margaret, quite sedately. "If I knew it was so wicked, I would not have looked at it at all," said Rosamond. "And you know she said she only read the first poem, in which there was no harm." "Yes, but who can ever believe her? I know I shall never trust her again. When I have found any one out once, there is the end of it with me." "According to your own account you are just as bad as Vevette," said Rosamond; "that is, if you don't tell lies every day." "Rosamond, what do you mean?" said Margaret, in a voice of amazement that almost made me laugh aloud. "I as bad as Vevette?" "According to your own showing," returned Rosamond, in the same matter-of-fact way. "Don't you say every day of your life that you have done the things you ought not to have done, and left undone the things you ought to have done—that there is no health in you, and you are a miserable sinner? I don't know what Vevette could say of herself worse than that."