“Never forget, Joanna,” said Perdy, “that grandpapa was one of the world’s great men. Your mother must at least have told you that. Even your Aunt Minnie, who is one of the silliest women imaginable, has done that much for her unfortunate children. Papa was not appreciated by his contemporaries any more than I am by mine. But in the end geatness must be recognized; and my aim is to leave in my writings a picture of papa which shall be an inspiration to future generations. I, in myself, am nothing.” (As she spoke, Perdy stretched out her arms in a magnificent gesture of humility.) “I cannot of myself write one word that will live. But as soon as I have sat down with an obedient heart at that little table by the window, and have taken my pen in my hand, papa comes to my elbow. And though, alas, I cannot see him, I hear his voice as I heard it in childhood – gentle yet stern – and he says to me, ‘Perdita, my child, child of my loins most beloved, write the words I speak to you now, and write no other words, for all other words are of the Devil.’ Once or twice – nay, many times, for I am weak and sinful still, and in the flesh – the Devil has come to tempt me upon my hill-top; and I have disobeyed darling papa’s command. I have written words of my own, or I have made believe that papa was still at my elbow when he was no longer there (for there are times when God has other work for him to do). But when I do that, when I write my own poor words, or the false words the Devil whispers, do you know what happens, Joanna?” On the very breath of the question Aunt Perdy broke off, turning to Aurora. “Aurora, this butter is rancid again. Where did you get it? There is no excuse at this time of year. Take it away, and tell Maria that the Scottish Signora is displeased with her.”

Having dispatched Aurora, Aunt Perdy bent her gaze once more on Joanna, leaning forward with blazing eyes.

“Where was I, Joanna? Ah yes. When I disobey sweet papa, this is what happens. I go to bed and to sleep. And in my sleep a hand is laid on my shoulder, and a voice says,’ Blot the wicked words of self!’ And still in my sleep I get up, and after climbing down the ladder I remember no more. But when I come down in the morning as usual, I find that all the words that were words of self have been blotted by my own hand.”