When he reached home, Mrs. Crump was sewing beside the fire. Aunt
Rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of
martyr-like resignation to the woes of life.
"I've brought you home a paper, Aunt Rachel," said the cooper,
cheerfully. "You may find something interesting in it."
"I sha'n't be able to read it this evening," said Rachel,
mournfully. "My eyes have troubled me lately. I feel that it is more
than probable that I am growing blind. But I trust I shall not live
to be a burden to you. Your prospects are dark enough without that."
"Don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, Rachel," said
the cooper, cheerily. "I think I know what will enable you to use
your eyes as well as ever."
"What?" asked Rachel, with melancholy curiosity.
"A pair of spectacles," said her brother, incautiously.
"Spectacles!" retorted Rachel, indignantly. "It will be a good many
years before I am old enough to wear spectacles. I didn't expect to
be insulted by my own brother. But it's one of my trials."
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Rachel," said the cooper,
perplexed.
"Good night," said Rachel, rising and taking a small lamp from the
table.
"Come, Rachel, don't go yet. It is early."
"After what you have said to me, Timothy, my self-respect will not
permit me to stay."
Rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary
melancholy.
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