“Bless the boy,” returned the old lady, “he’s got the Nichols’ head for figgerin’.  Yes, Nancy’s great-aunt though she was six years and two months younger’n Nancy’s mother.  Wall, as I was sayin’, she went off to Virginny to teach music.  She was prouder’n Lucifer, and after a spell she married a southerner, rich as a Jew, and then she never took no more notice of her folks to hum, than’s ef they hadn’t been.  But the poor critter didn’t live long to enjoy it, for when her first baby was born, she died.  ’Twas a little girl, but her folks in Massachusetts have never heard a word whether she’s dead or alive.  Joel Slocum, that’s Nancy’s nephew, says he means to go down there some day, and look her up, but I wouldn’t bother with ’em, for that side of the house always did feel big, and above Nancy’s folks, thinkin’ Nancy’s mother married beneath her.”

Mrs. Graham must have enjoyed her dinner very much, for during grandma’s recital she applied herself assiduously to her plate, never once looking up, while her face and neck were literally spotted, either with heat, excitement or anger.  These spots at last attracted Mrs. Nichols’ attention, causing her to ask the lady “if she warn’t pestered with erysipelas.”

“I am not aware of it, madam,” answered Mrs. Graham, and grandma replied, “It looks mighty like it to me, and I’ve seen a good deal on’t, for Nancy Scovandyke has allers had it more or less.  Now I think on’t,” she continued, as if bent on tormenting her companion, “now I think on’t, you look quite a considerable like Nancy—­the same forehead and complexion—­only she’s a head taller.  Hain’t you noticed it, John?”

“No, I have not,” answered John, at the same time proposing a change in the conversation, as he presumed “they had all heard enough of Nancy Scovandyke.”

At this moment the dessert appeared, and with it Anna’s pie.  John Jr. was the first to taste it, and with an expression of disgust he exclaimed, “Horror, mother, who made this pie?”

Mrs. Livingstone needed but one glance at her guests to know that something was wrong, and darting an angry frown at Hagar, who was busy at a side-table, she wondered “if there ever was any one who had so much trouble with servants as herself.”

Anna saw the gathering storm, and knowing full well that it would burst on poor Hagar’s head, spoke out, “Hagar is not in the fault, mother—­no one but myself is to blame. I made the pie, and must have put in salt instead of sugar.”

“You made the pie!” repeated Mrs. Livingstone angrily, “What business had you in the kitchen?  Pity we hadn’t a few more servants, for then we should all be obliged to turn drudges.”

Anna was about to reply, when John Jr. prevented her, by asking, “if it hurt his sister to be in the kitchen any more than it did ’Lena, who,” he said, “worked there both yesterday and to-day, burning herself until she is ashamed to appear at the table.”