“You don’t need to spend such a sight on dress,” said Deborah, disapprovingly.

“I beg your pardon, Aunt Deborah; that’s where you are mistaken.  The store-keepers in New York expect you to dress tip-top and look genteel, so as to do credit to them.  If it hadn’t been for that, I shouldn’t have spent half so much for dress.  Then, board’s very expensive.”

“You can get boarded here for two dollars and a half a week,” said Aunt Deborah.

“Two dollars and a half!  Why, I never paid less than eight dollars a week in the city, and you can only get poor board for that.”

“The boarding-houses must make a great deal of money,” said Deborah.  “If I was younger, I’d maybe go to New York, and keep one myself.”

“You’re rich, aunt.  You don’t need to do that.”

“Who told you I was rich?” said the old lady, quickly.

“Why, you’ve only got yourself to take care of, and you own this farm, don’t you?”

“Yes, but farmin’ don’t pay much.”

“I always heard you were pretty comfortable.”

“So I am,” said the old lady, “and maybe I save something; but my income aint as great as yours.”

“You have only yourself to look after, and it is cheap living in Centreville.”

“I don’t fling money away.  I don’t spend quarter as much as you on dress.”

Looking at the old lady’a faded bombazine dress, Ferdinand was very ready to believe this.

“You don’t have to dress here, I suppose,” he answered.  “But, aunt, we won’t talk about money matters just yet.  It was funny you took me for a book-pedler.”

“It was that book you had, that made me think so.”

“It’s a book I brought as a present to you, Aunt Deborah.”

“You don’t say!” said the old lady, gratified.  “What is it?  Let me look at it.”

“It’s a copy of ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ illustrated.  I knew you wouldn’t like the trashy books they write nowadays, so I brought you this.”

“Really, Ferdinand, you’re very considerate,” said Aunt Deborah, turning over the leaves with manifest pleasure.  “It’s a good book, and I shall be glad to have it.  Where are you stoppin’?”

“At the hotel in the village.”

“You must come and stay here.  You can get ’em to send round your things any time.”

“Thank you, aunt, I shall be delighted to do so.  It seems so pleasant to see you again after so many years.  You don’t look any older than when I saw you last.”

Miss Deborah knew very well that she did look older, but still she was pleased by the compliment.  Is there any one who does not like to receive the same assurance?

“I’m afraid your eyes aint very sharp, Ferdinand,” she said.  “I feel I’m gettin’ old.  Why, I’m sixty-one, come October.”

“Are you?  I shouldn’t call you over fifty, from your looks, aunt.  Really I shouldn’t.”

“I’m afraid you tell fibs sometimes,” said Aunt Deborah, but she said it very graciously, and surveyed her nephew very kindly.  “Heigh ho! it’s a good while since your poor father and I were children together, and went to the school-house on the hill.  Now he’s gone, and I’m left alone.”