“And when, Trot,” said my aunt, patting the back of my hand, as we sat in our old way before the fire, “when are you going over to Canterbury?”

“I shall get a horse, and ride over tomorrow morning, aunt, unless you will go with me?”

“No!” said my aunt, in her short abrupt way. “I mean to stay where I am.”

Then, I should ride, I said. I could not have come through Canterbury today without stopping, if I had been coming to anyone but her.

She was pleased, but answered, “Tut, Trot; my old bones would have kept till tomorrow!” and softly patted my hand again, as I sat looking thoughtfully at the fire.