“Me,” and “Me,” and “Me,” cried the girls simultaneously, and their father laughed and said: “You see, Laura, what a lot of dunces they are. Give them one of their mother’s magazines, with fashion pictures and directions for making silk purses out of sows’ ears and pretty little tales that end in wedding bells, and they’ll lap it up like a cat lapping cream; but offer them something to read that needs a bit of biting on and they’re soon tired, or too hot, or too cold, or they can’t stand the smell of cobbler’s wax, or think they hear somebody knocking at the front door and have to go to open it. Molly started reading The Pilgrim’s Progress to me over a year ago—her own choice, because she liked the pictures—and got the poor fellow as far as the Slough of Despond. Then she had to take an afternoon off to get a new frock fitted. Then there was something else, and something else, and poor Christian is still bogged up in the slough for all she knows or cares. But we won’t have The Pilgrim’s Progress when you read to me, Laura. That is a shade dull for some young people. I’ve read it a good many times and hope to read it a good many more before I wear my eyesight out getting a living for these ungrateful young besoms. A grand old book, The Pilgrim’s Progress! But I’ve something here you’ll like better. Cranford. Ever heard of it, Laura? No, I thought not. Well, you’ve got a treat in store.”

They sampled Cranford that afternoon, and how Laura loved dear Miss Matty! Her uncle was pleased with her reading, but not too pleased to correct her faults.