Poor Aunty had that very day prepared herself for something uncommonly nice in the way of dinner, and felt a little disappointed; but cousin Emma soon restored her equanimity by a liberal display of fruit-cake and other nice things, which presented themselves on opening the side-board door.

Aunty Patton had mild, winning kind of manners, and became a general favorite in the nursery; probably on account of her always noticing us, and pronouncing us “lovely little creatures.”  She appeared to me the most heavenly-minded old lady I had ever seen; and I listened, with a species of awe, to the long stories which she loved so dearly to relate about everybody whom she visited.  She was very short—­not seeming to me much taller than myself—­and the cumbrous dress of the period was calculated to make her appear much shorter.  She would sit and relate wonderful occurrences which seemed constantly taking place in her daughter’s family; one of the children would cut his foot, and for sometime there would be danger of amputation—­another urchin would upset a kettle of scalding water on himself, and then he would be laid up for sometime, while mamma turned the green-ribbon room topsy-turvy in her searches after old linen—­and once the daughter fell down stairs, and was taken up for dead.  They seemed to be an unfortunate family—­always meeting with hair-breadth escapes.  Aunty Patton’s reticule was always well filled with good things on every occasion of her departure; and very often a collection of money was added to the stock.

Mamma sometimes endeavored to enlist our sympathies in benevolent purposes.  I remember, on one occasion, when I had been teasing sometime for a new tortoise-shell comb to keep back my hair with, it suddenly entered my head that it would be a well-disposed action to ask for some money to give Aunty Patton.

“Are you willing, Amy, to deny yourself anything,” asked mamma, after I had made my request, “in order that I may give this money to Aunty Patton?  It is no benevolence in you to ask me to give away money, unless you are willing to do without something in consequence.  If I give Aunty Patton the five dollars that your comb will cost, are you willing to do without it?”

“Dear me,” thought I, “being good is very expensive.”  I deliberated for sometime, but finally answered, “No.”  My mother pressed the subject no farther; but after a while I exclaimed with a comfortable feeling of magnanimity; “Yes, dear mamma, you may give Aunty Patton the five dollars—­and I’ll get papa to buy me the comb!”

Mammy was a great judge of character, and when she once made up her mind not to like a person, it was very difficult to make her change her sentiments.  My father once brought in a travelling clergyman, who represented himself as very devout and unfortunate; and we all made great efforts to entertain him.  He was travelling West, he said, and endeavoring to collect on the road sufficient money to pay his expenses.  My father invited him to remain with us a month; and he seemed very much to enjoy the good things so liberally showered upon him—­contriving at the same time to render himself so agreeable that he quite won our hearts.  Mammy alone remained proof against his insinuations; he paid assiduous court to her, and did his best to remove this unfavorable impression, but the old nurse remained immovable.