glean as many facts of a similar kind as possible. "And my dear Miss Canticle, are you acquainted with the Carews, and the Vortigerns, and those people?"
"Am acquainted with 'em all," cries my dear Miss Canticle, with a promptitude and emphasis that made me shudder; "and a pretty company they are! Shouldn't tell you a word of this, my dear madam, only it is as well for persons who know what virtue is to be forewarned against those who don't."
"Exactly," says my aunt, with a grim and gleaming eye.
"Prue," says I, sweetly as a song, though I was pale with rage, "I am going to dress for supper. Come along with me, dear, and I will show you my new watered-silk. 'Twill make you dream of it to-night."
"A watered silk!" she cried, and instantly jumped up and followed me with a wonderful excitement that only a woman could have shown. How could I be angry with a villain with such a deal of genius?
"Prue," says I, as we ascended to my chamber, "you are a perfect devil."
"Perfection," says she, "is the pinnacle of womanhood. So long as I am perfect I don't much care. 'Tis what I aim at. I would rather far be a complete fiend than an incomplete she-angel! For you know as well as I do, dear Bab, that every she-angel is of necessity an incomplete one."
