The
person who answered the door, informed me that my aunt and her daughter
(I really cannot call her my cousin!) had arrived from the country
a week since, and meditated making some stay in London. I sent up a
message at once, declining to disturb them, and only begging to know
whether I could be of any use.
The person who answered the door, took my message in insolent silence,
and left me standing in the hall. She is the daughter of a heathen old
man named Betteredge--long, too long, tolerated in my aunt's family.
I sat down in the hall to wait for my answer--and, having always a few
tracts in my bag, I selected one which proved to be quite providentially
applicable to the person who answered the door. The hall was dirty, and
the chair was hard; but the blessed consciousness of returning good for
evil raised me quite above any trifling considerations of that kind. The
tract was one of a series addressed to young women on the sinfulness of
dress. In style it was devoutly familiar. Its title was, "A Word With
You On Your Cap-Ribbons."
"My lady is much obliged, and begs you will come and lunch to-morrow at
two."
I passed over the manner in which she gave her message, and the dreadful
boldness of her look.
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