“My dear,” said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; “it’s a great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.”
I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:
“Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, we are well off.”
“I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,” said I.
“Well, then, why don’t you think so?” said my aunt.
“Because you and I are very different people,” I returned.
“Stuff and nonsense, Trot!” replied my aunt.
My aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there was very little affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale with a teaspoon, and soaking her strips of toast in it.
“Trot,” said she, “I don’t care for strange faces in general, but I rather like that Barkis of yours, do you know!”
“It’s better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!” said I.
“It’s a most extraordinary world,” observed my aunt, rubbing her nose; “how that woman ever got into it with that name, is unaccountable to me. It would be much more easy to be born a Jackson, or something of that sort, one would think.”
“Perhaps she thinks so, too; it’s not her fault,” said I.
“I suppose not,” returned my aunt, rather grudging the admission; “but it’s very aggravating. However, she’s Barkis now . That’s some comfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of you, Trot.”