Fel and I had begun to read before we were four years old, and by the time we were six we knew too much to go to the town school any more. I believe that was what we thought; but the fact was, Fel was very delicate, and her mother considered the walk to the school-house too long for her, and the benches too hard. She wished to have a governess come and live in the house, so the child could study at home. I thought this was too bad. I knew almost as much as Fel did. Why must I go to the town school if it wasn't good enough for her?

"Mamma, I wish I was del'cate," whined I. "Ned snipped off my finger in the corn-sheller,—don't that make me del'cate?"

"Delicate!" said Ned. "You're as tough as a pine knot."

I thought this was a cruel speech. He ought to be ashamed to snip off my finger, and then call me tough.

In looking about for a governess, Madam Allen thought at once of dear Martha Rubie, who lived just across the garden from their house. Uncle John's wife was her sister, the aunt Persis I told you about, who thought I ought not to hear baby-talk. Aunt Persis wasn't willing her sister Martha should go away from home; she said Fel might trip across the garden and say her lessons at her house. Fel didn't like to do it, for she was afraid of aunt Persis—she wouldn't go unless I would go with her; and finally mother said I might; so it turned out just as well for me as if I was delicate. She wanted Gust to go too, and he wasn't willing. But if Fel set her heart on anything it generally came about.

"Augustus," said Madam Allen, smiling with her pleasant black eyes, which had a firm look in them, "you will recite to Miss Rubie if I wish it."

"Well, then, I want some of the other fellows to 'cite too," sniffed little Gust; "'tisn't fair for one boy to go to a patchwork school, long o' girls."

And thus it happened that several children joined us, and Miss Rubie had quite a sizable school.

And now I must tell you what sort of a house we went to; for the whole thing was very queer. In the first place, there was dear uncle John,—yes, your uncle John; but don't ask any questions; I'll tell you more by and by,—and his wife, that was aunt Persis; and his wife's sister, dear sweet Martha Rubie; and his little boy, Zed. Aunt Persis was an elegant, stately woman, but there was always something odd about her. I think myself it was odd she shouldn't like baby-talk.

She knit herself into my earliest recollections when she was Pauline Rubie, and after she married uncle John, she knit my stockings just the same, and uncle never interfered with the stripes, red and white, running round and round like a barber's pole. They were the pride of my life till Gust Allen said they made my little legs look like sticks of candy, good enough to eat. Then I hated them; but aunt Persis had got in the way of knitting stripes, and wouldn't stop it, beg as I might—for she always thought her way was right, and couldn't be improved.

Among other things she thought she knew all about medicine. There was a system called "hot crop," or "steaming," and she believed in it, and wanted everybody to take fiery hot drinks, and be steamed. That was the chief reason why we were so afraid of her.

Her house was a very pleasant, cosy one, or would have been if it hadn't had such a scent of herbs all through it. The first day we went to school aunt Persis met us at the door, and asked Fel to put out her tongue. Then she took us to a cupboard, and gave Fel something to drink, that we both thought was coffee; but it was stinging hot composition tea. Miss Rubie came into the kitchen just as Fel was catching her breath over the last mouthful, and said she,—

"O, Persis, how could you?"

We followed Miss Rubie into the school-room as fast as we could go. This school-room was right over a little cellar, just deep enough for a grown person to stand up in. It was called the "jelly-cellar," and when we were naughty Miss Rubie opened a trap-door and let us down. I was so restless and noisy that for a while I spent half my time in that cellar, surrounded by jars of jelly and jam. And I am afraid I could say sometimes, "How sweet is solitude!" for there was just light enough from the one window to give me a clear view of the jars, with their nice white labels, and more than once I did—I blush to confess it—I did put my fingers into a peach jar and help myself to preserves. I was old enough to know better; I resisted the temptation a great many days, but one unlucky morning I espied Dunie Foster coming up from the cellar with jelly stains on her white apron, and that set me to thinking.

"Ah, ha; Dunie eats perserves, and looks just as innocent's a lamb! Folks think she's better 'n me, but she isn't, she's a make-believer. I wonder if it's dreadful wicked to take perserves? Prehaps auntie spects us to eat 'em. Any way, Fel Allen never gets put down cellar, and it's real mean; and if I have to stay down there the whole time I ought to have something to make me feel better; I feel real hungry, and they ought to spect I'd eat perserves." So I did it; partly because Dunie did, partly because Fel wasn't punished and ought to be, and partly because it was most likely auntie put 'em there a-purpose! I think I never did it but three times; and the third time it was thoroughwort and molasses! Strong, I assure you, boiled down to a thick sirup. I had the jar at my lips, and had taken a long, deep draught, when I happened to look up, and there was aunt Persis going by the window, and looking straight down at me!

I was so startled by the bitter taste in my mouth and the sight of aunt Persis, both coming at the same time, that I gave a little scream, and pranced round and round the cellar like a wild animal. Miss Rubie heard me, and came down to see what was the matter. She did not ask if I had been meddling with the jars; but she must have known, for a sticky stream was trickling over my dress, and I had set the sirup down on the floor with the cover off. She bent a keen glance on me, and at the same time I saw a little twinkle in her eye. I suppose she thought my guilt would bring its own punishment, for she probably knew the thoroughwort would make me sick.

"Are you ready now to be a good, quiet girl?" said she. I had been shut down for noisiness.

"Yes'm," said I, meekly, and followed her up stairs.

But though my heart was heavy with shame, I could not help thinking, "What orful tastin' perserves!" and wondering if aunt Persis really was crazy, as Tempy Ann said she was.

Miss Rubie had had reason to think before that some of the children went to those jars, but she did not say so; she merely remarked,—

"It is nearly noon, children; you may lay aside your books now, and, if you like, I will tell you a story."

Everybody was pleased but me. I wanted to go home. The story was from the text, "Thou, God, seest me." It was about Adaline Singleton, a little girl who took her mother's cake without leave, and her mother counted the slices, and found her out.

I could not look up at Miss Rubie all the while she was talking, but I noticed Dunie Foster did. I was trying to rub that zigzag stream of sirup off my apron; and O, how sick I grew! Would she ever stop?

I knew God had seen me yesterday and day before, when I ate peach preserves, and I had no doubt it was to punish me that I had been allowed to swallow this bitter stuff to-day. But, O, if I could go home!

I never see that story of Adaline Singleton now among my books but it calls up a remembrance of guilt and nausea too. I would give a great deal, little Fly, if I hadn't so many bad things to remember. It is because I hope to do you good that I am willing to tell of them. May you have a purer childhood to look back upon!

Thankful was I when school was out that noon, but I wasn't able to go again in the afternoon; and my mother knew why!

It was the last time I was ever put in that cellar. Miss Rubie found another method of punishment; and I think I can say truthfully it was the last time I ever took sweetmeats without leave. I did other wrong things in plenty, but that I could never do again. When mother said I might go to the box and get "half a dozen raisins," I got half a dozen, and not a handful. Those solemn words rang in my ears,—"Thou, God, seest me,"—just as Miss Rubie had spoken them in her low, sweet tones.

For days I dared not meet aunt Persis's eye, but she treated me just the same, often loading me down with pennyroyal and spearmint to take home to mother. I did not know she was near-sighted, and had not seen me drinking her thoroughwort. It was the first medicine of hers I had ever taken, and that bitter taste in my mouth decided me, upon reflection, that she was crazy. As it proved, I was not very far wrong.

There had been something the matter with her wits for two or three years, and she was growing queerer and queerer. People began to wonder what made her want to look at their tongues so much. She said now if she met people on her way to church, "Please, put out your tongue;" and sometimes said it on the very church steps. This was queer; but they did not know how much queerer she was at home. We children could have told how she came into the school-room and felt all our pulses, but we thought Miss Rubie would be sorry to have us tell.

Her little boy Zed, about four years old, had to take her dreadful medicines, of course, for medicine was the very thing auntie was crazy about. He carried some of his doses into school to drink at recess, and we all pitied him. Sometimes he ate dry senna and raisins mixed on a plate, and we teased away the raisins, and he had to chew the senna "bare." He cried then, and said we ought to help eat that too, and we did. I thought it had a crazy taste, like the thoroughwort, and was sorry Zed had a liver inside him, and wished that his mother hadn't found it out.

Miss Rubie was very good and patient with us, but we began to dread to go to school. I overheard Tempy Ann say to Polly Whiting,—

"The story is, that Mrs. Adams (aunt Persis) steamed her own mother out of the world."

"You don't say so!" said Polly. "How long since?"

"About two years ago. The poor old lady sailed off very easy, with a jug of hot water close to her nose."

That frightened us dreadfully. We knew aunt Persis steamed Zed, for he said so; and what if she should steam us all out of the world with jugs of hot water close to our noses? And she was always trying to make Fel swallow something bad, and always talking about her white face. "Tell your mother to let me have you for a month," said she, "and I'll put roses into your cheeks, my dear."

Fel was so afraid that she trembled when we went into the house, expecting auntie would spring out upon her, and set her over the fire to steam. But she was such a patient, still little thing that she never complained, even to her own mother, and I was too rattle-brained to think much about it, though if I myself had expected to be cooked, the whole town would have heard of it.

Zed grew paler and paler. I asked Miss Rubie, privately, "what made his mother boil him?" And she smiled, though not as if she was happy, and said,—

"She doesn't boil him when I can help it, dear."

About this time I heard my mother say to my father she wished uncle John was at home, for auntie acted so odd, and her eyes looked so strange.

"Yes, mamma," cried I, rushing in from the nursery, "she boils her little boy, and she wants to boil Fel. I should think you'd tell Fel's mother, for Fel dassent tell, she's so scared."

I think mother went right to Madam Allen with what I said, for the next night, when I was at Squire Allen's, and Fel was sitting in her mamma's lap, Madam Allen said,—

"Why didn't my little girl let me know she was afraid of Mrs. Adams? When darling feels unhappy about anything she must always tell mamma."

Fel was so glad somebody was going to protect her, that she threw her arms about her mother's neck, and sobbed for joy. "Don't let her hurt Zed either," said she. She was such a dear little soul, always thinking about others.

"Now tell me if that boy has got a name?" spoke up grandpa Harrington. That was what he always asked when any one spoke of Zed.

"Yes, sir; his name is Rosalvin Colvazart," said Madam Allen. "Zed is for short."

"I know, I know, Rose Albert Coffeepot," laughed grandpa. He had said that fifty times, but he always thought it a new joke.

That night, while we were all soundly asleep, we were suddenly roused by the sharp ringing of the door-bell. Squire Allen went to the door, and there, on the steps, stood our dear teacher, Martha Rubie, in her night dress, with a shawl over her shoulders.

"O, Mr. Allen! O, madam! come quick! My sister is worse. She has steamed Zed, and she was trying him with a fork; but I locked him into the closet. Do come and take care of her. She is putting lobelia down the cow's throat."

Fel and I screamed, and Tempy Ann had to come in and soothe us. Fel wasn't willing her father and mother should go; but I said, "Don't you be afraid; aunt Persis won't boil 'em; they're too big to get into the kettle."

Tempy Ann laughed in her shaky way—which always made me provoked.

"Tempy Ann," cried I, jumping over the foot-board, "I guess you wouldn't laugh if you should be doubled up, and put over the stove! You needn't think Fel and I are babies, and don' know what you said about her boiling her mother up the chimney, with a jug on her nose; but we do know, and it's so, and sober true, for we've seen the kettle."

But it wasn't of the least use to reason with Tempy Ann when she had one of those shaky spells. So silly as she was at such times, I almost wished she could be boiled half a minute, to see if it wouldn't sober her down.

It seems aunt Persis had really become very crazy indeed; and that dear, sweet, patient, good Martha had been trying to keep it a secret; but it couldn't be done any longer. She acted so badly that Martha couldn't manage her. When Squire Allen went into the house, she was stirring "Number Six" into some corn-meal for the hens, and was very angry with him because he made her leave off and go to bed.

Father and mother had to take care of her till uncle John came; but she was as sick as she was crazy, and did not live till October.

I remember looking at her beautiful, white face, the first I ever saw in death, and thinking,—

"How glad auntie is to be so still."

No one told me she was tired, but somehow I knew it, for she was always flying about in such a hurry, and I was sure it must rest her very much to go to sleep. I received then a pleasant, peaceful impression of death, which I never forgot.

Miss Rubie staid at Squire Allen's for some time, and taught Fel. Now she is a person whom you all know very well; but I shall not tell who she is till by and by.