can. And to be good is better than to be
pretty. We don't think about looks here.
You may get down, child, and go into the
garden, and take care you put your bonnet
on, or you'll be all over freckles." We got
up to take leave at the same time, and
followed the little girl out of the room.
Ethelinda fumbled in her pocket.

"Here's sixpence, my dear, for you. Nay,
I am sure you may take it from an old woman
like me, to whom you've told over more
geography than I ever thought there was out
of the Bible." For Ethelinda always
maintained that the long chapters in the Bible
which were all names were geography; and
though I knew well enough they were not,
yet I had forgetten what the right word was,
so I let her alone; for one hard word did as
well as another. Little Miss looked as if she
was not sure if she might take it; but I
suppose we had two kindly old faces, for at
last the smile came into her eyes—not to her
mouth—she had lived too much with grave
and quiet people for that; and, looking
wistfully at us, she said :

"Thank you. But won't you go and see
Aunt Annabella?" We said we should like to
pay our respects to both her other aunts if
we might take that liberty; and perhaps she
would show us the way. But, at the door of
a room, she stopped short, arid said sorrowfully,
"I mayn't go in; it is not my week for
being with Aunt Annabella;" and then she
went slowly and heavily towards the garden
door.

"That child is cowed by somebody," said I
to Ethelinda.

"But she knows a deal of geography"—
Ethelinda's speech was cut short by the
opening of the door in answer to our knock. The
once beautiful Miss Annabella Morton stood
before us, and bade us enter. She was dressed
in white, with a turned up velvet hat, and
two or three short drooping black feathers in
it. I should not like to say she rouged, but she
had a very pretty colour in her cheeks; that
much can do neither good nor harm. At
first she looked so unlike anybody I had ever
seen, that I wondered what the child could
have found to like in her; for like her she did,
that was very clear. But, when Miss
Annabella spoke, I came under the charm. Her
voice was very sweet and plaintive, and suited
well with the kind of things she said; all
about charms of nature, and tears, and grief,
and such sort of talk, which reminded me
rather of poetry—very pretty to listen to;
though I never could understand it as well
as plain comfortable prose. Still I hardly
know why I liked Miss Annabella. I think
I was sorry for her; though whether I
should have been if she had not put it in my
head, I don't know. The room looked very
comfortable; a spinnet in a corner to amuse
herself with, and a good sofa to lie down
upon. By and bye, we got her to talk of
her little niece, and she too had her system
of education. She said she hoped to develope
the sensibilities, and to cultivate the tastes.
While with her, her darling niece read works
of imagination, and acquired all that Miss
Annabella could impart of the fine arts. We
neither of us quite knew what she was hinting
at at the time; but afterwards, by dint of
questioning little Miss, and using our own eyes
and ears, we found that she read aloud to her
aunt while she lay on the sofa; Santo
Sebastiano, or the Young Protector, was what
they were deep in at this time; and, as it was
in five volumes and the heroine spoke broken
English—which required to be read twice
over to make it intelligible—it lasted them a
long time. She also learned to play on the
spinnet; not much—for I never heard above
two tunes; one of which was God save the
King, and the other was not. But I fancy
the poor child was lectured by one aunt, and
frightened by the other's sharp ways and
numerous fancies. She might well be fond of
her gentle, pensive (Miss Annabella told me
she was pensive, so I know I am right in
calling her so) aunt with her soft voice, and her
never ending novels, and the sweet scents
that hovered about the sleepy room.

No one tempted us towards Miss Dorothy's
apartment when we left Miss Annabella; so
we did not see the youngest Miss Morton this
first day. We had each of us treasured up
many little mysteries to be explained by our
dictionary, Mrs. Turner.

"Who is little Miss Mannisty?" we asked
in one breath, when we saw our friend from
the Hall. And then we learnt that there had
been a fourth—a younger Miss Morton, who
was no beauty, and no wit, and no anything;
so Miss Sophronia, her eldest sister, had
allowed her to marry a Mr. Mannisty, and
ever after spoke of her as "my poor sister
Jane." She and her husband had gone out
to India; and both had died there; and the
General had made it a sort of condition with
his sisters that they should take charge of
the child, or else none of them liked children
except Miss Annabella.

"Miss Annabella likes children!" said I.
"Then that's the reason children like her."

"I can't say she likes children; for we
never have any in our house but Miss Cordelia;
but her she does like dearly."

"Poor little Miss!" said Ethelinda, "does
she never get a game of play with other
little girls?" And I am sure from that time
Ethelinda considered her in a diseased state
from this very circumstance, and that her
knowledge of geography was one of the
symptoms of the disorder; for she used often
to say, "I wish she did not know so much
geography! I'm sure it is not quite right"

Whether or not her geography was right
I don't know; but the child pined for
companions. A very few days after we had
called—and yet long enough to have passed
her into Miss Annabella's week—I saw Miss
Cordelia in a corner of the church green,