Arethusa launched herself full tilt into the ear-trumpet.

“What—­kind—­of—­cotton?” she asked in that key of voice which makes the crowd pause in a panic.

Aunt Mary looked disgusted.

“The Boston kind,” she said, nipping her lips.

Arethusa took a double hitch on her larynx, and tried again.

“Do you mean thread?”

Aunt Mary’s disgust deepened visibly.

“If I meant silk I guess I wouldn’t say cotton.  I might just happen to say silk.  I’ve been in the habit of saying silk when I meant silk and cotton when I meant cotton, for quite a number of years, and I might not have changed to-day—­I might just happen to not have.  I might not have—­maybe.”

Arethusa withered under this bitter irony.

“How many spools do you want?” she asked in a meek but piercing howl.

“I don’t care,” said Aunt Mary loftily.  “I don’t care how many—­or what color—­or what number.  I just want some Boston cotton, and I want to see you settin’ out to get it pretty promptly to-morrow morning.”

“But if you only want some cotton,” Arethusa yelled, with a force which sent crimson waves all over her, “why can’t I get it in the village?”

Aunt Mary shot one look at her niece and the latter felt the concussion.

“Because—­I—­want—­you—­to—­get—­it—­in—­Boston,” she said, filling the breaks between her words with a concentrated essence of acerbity such as even she had never displayed before.  “When I say a thing, I mean it pretty generally.  Quite often—­most always.  I want that cotton and it’s to be bought in Boston.  There’s a train that goes in at seven-forty-five, and if you don’t favor the idea of ridin’ on it you can take the express that goes by at six-five.”

Arethusa pressed her hands very tightly together and carried the discussion no further.  She went to bed early and rose early the next morning and Joshua drove her in town to the seven-forty-five.

“It doesn’t seem to me that my aunt is very well,” the niece said during the drive.  “What do you think?”

“I don’t think anything about her,” said Joshua with great candor.  “If I was to give to thinkin’ I’d o’ moved out to Chicago an’ been scalpin’ Indians to-day.”

“I wonder if that trip to New York was good for her?” Arethusa wondered mildly.

Joshua flicked Billy with the whip and refused to voice any opinion as to New York’s effect on his mistress.

Arethusa was well on her way to Boston when Aunt Mary’s bell, rung with a sharp jangle, summoned Lucinda to open her bedroom blinds.  While Lucinda was leaning far out and attempting to cause said blinds to catch on the hooks, which habitually held them back against the side of the house, her mistress addressed her with a suddeness which showed that she had awakened with her wits surprisingly well in hand.

“Where’s Joshua?  Is he got back from Arethusa?  Answer me, Lucinda.”