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“Oh, Jerry can come for it tonight as well as not,” said Aunt Philippa, as we climbed into her buggy. “I’d a good notion to send him to meet you, for he isn’t doing much today, and I wanted to go to Mrs. Roderick MacAllister’s funeral. But my head was aching me so bad I thought I wouldn’t enjoy the funeral if I did go. My head is better now, so I kind of wish I had gone. She was a hundred and four years old and I’d always promised myself that I’d go to her funeral.”

Aunt Philippa’s tone was melancholy. She did not recover her good spirits until we were out on the pretty, grassy, elm-shaded country road, garlanded with its ribbon of buttercups. Then she suddenly turned around and looked me over scrutinizingly.

“You’re not as good-looking as I expected from your picture, but them photographs always flatter. That’s the reason I never had any took. You’re rather thin and brown. But you’ve good eyes and you look clever. Your father writ me you hadn’t much sense, though. He wants me to teach you some, but it’s a thankless business. People would rather be fools.”

Aunt Philippa struck her steed smartly with the whip and controlled his resultant friskiness with admirable skill.

“Well, you know it’s pleasanter,” I said, wickedly. “Just think what a doleful world it would be if everybody were sensible.”

Aunt Philippa looked at me out of the corner of her eye and disdained any skirmish of flippant epigram.

“So you want to get married?” she said. “You’d better wait till you’re grown up.”

“How old must a person be before she is grown up?” I asked gravely.

“Humph! That depends. Some are grown up when they’re born, and others ain’t grown up when they’re eighty. That same Mrs. Roderick I was speaking of never grew up. She was as foolish when she was a hundred as when she was ten.”

“Perhaps that’s why she lived so long,” I suggested. All thought of seeking sympathy in Aunt Philippa had vanished. I resolved I would not even mention Mark’s name.

“Mebbe ’twas,” admitted Aunt Philippa with a grim smile. “I’d rather live fifty sensible years than a hundred foolish ones.”

Much to my relief, she made no further reference to my affairs. As we rounded a curve in the road where two great over-arching elms met, a buggy wheeled by us, occupied by a young man in clerical costume. He had a pleasant boyish face, and he touched his hat courteously. Aunt Philippa nodded very frostily and gave her horse a quite undeserved cut.

“There’s a man you don’t want to have much to do with,” she said portentously. “He’s a Methodist minister.”

“Why, Auntie, the Methodists are a very nice denomination,” I protested. “My stepmother is a Methodist, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know, but I’d believe anything of a stepmother. I’ve no use for Methodists or their ministers. This fellow just came last spring, and it’s my opinion he smokes. And he thinks every girl who looks at him falls in love with him–as if a Methodist minister was any prize! Don’t you take much notice of him, Ursula.”

“I’ll not be likely to have the chance,” I said, with an amused smile.

“Oh, you’ll see enough of him. He boards at Mrs. John Callman’s, just across the road from us, and he’s always out sunning himself on her verandah. Never studies, of course. Last Sunday they say he preached on the iron that floated. If he’d confine himself to the Bible and leave sensational subjects alone it would be better for him and his poor congregation, and so I told Mrs. John Callman to her face. I should think she would have had enough of his sex by this time. She married John Callman against her father’s will, and he had delirious trembles for years. That’s the men for you.”

“They’re not all like that, Aunt Philippa,” I protested.