"Your father thinks too much of himself to shut himself up in such a lodge in the wilderness as this is," was the reply. "But he thinks it is good enough for his sisters, though he might take a house in Newcastle for us as well as not." "But, Mrs. Philippa, I thought you did not like Newcastle," I said, rather unwisely. "I am sure you called it an odious place." "You are very pert, miss, to remember my words against me," returned Mrs. Philippa; "but no doubt you have had your lesson. No doubt my Sister Deborah has given you your lesson already. I dare say she has been talking about me all the morning. Pray, what has she told you about me?" "Nothing, Mrs. Philippa," I answered, truly. "She has not mentioned your name except to say that we should wait upon you, and come to her in the still-room when you dismissed us." In my heart, I hoped this dismission would come soon, for the air of the room was stifling, and Mrs. Philippa had never asked us to sit down. "Oh!" said she, in a tone of sarcastic incredulity. "You are very discreet—very wise, indeed, Miss Corbet; but you will not blind me quite so easily. I know my Sister Deborah." "Indeed, Mrs. Philippa, she did not once speak of you except just as I tell you!" I said, feeling lay cheeks flame. "Well, well, what do I care whether she did or not?" said Mrs. Philippa, peevishly. "There, sit down. Tupper, why do you not set chairs for the young ladies? And so you have lived in a convent all your days. Of course you know nothing of society. Well, so much the better. I might as well be in a convent myself, for all the company I have. Chloe is so silly she puts me out of all patience, but every thing she does is right in Deborah's eyes. I have not spoken to my Sister Deborah in more than twenty years!" Mrs. Philippa made this announcement as if she thought it something to be proud of. We looked steadfastly at the floor and said not a word. "Not in twenty years!" repeated Mrs. Philippa. "And I never will if I live twenty years more. She did me such an injury with my father as I shall never forgive if I live to be a hundred." I cannot describe the expression of rancor with which Mrs. Philippa said these words. They made me shudder. "But suppose you do not live to be a hundred, Aunt Philippa," said Amabel, raising her clear eyes to her aunt. "Suppose you should die to-night!" "What do you mean by that, miss?" asked Mrs. Philippa. "Of course I must forgive her when I am dying or I cannot take the sacrament, but I am resolved I never will do so before." "But you may die without having time for the sacraments," persisted Amabel; "or perhaps you may have lost the power of forgiving by that time. What would happen then?"