got entire possession of the boy, and were determined to make the most of him. When deeply interested in anything, Martin was as grave and serious as a philosopher.
Aunt Dorothy Grumbit had a turned-up nose—a very much turned-up nose; so much so, indeed, that it presented a front view of the nostrils! It was an aggravating nose, too, for the old lady's spectacles refused to rest on any part of it except the extreme point. Mrs. Grumbit invariably placed them on the right part of her nose, and they as invariably slid down the curved slope until they were brought up by the little hillock at the end. There they condescended to repose in peace.
Mrs. Grumbit was mild, and gentle, and little, and thin, and old—perhaps seventy-five; but no one knew her age for certain, not even herself. She wore an old-fashioned, high-crowned cap, and a gown of bed-curtain chintz, with flowers on it the size of a saucer. It was a curious gown, and very cheap, for Mrs. Grumbit was poor. No one knew the extent of her poverty any more than they did her age; but she herself knew it, and felt it deeply—never so deeply, perhaps, as when her orphan nephew Martin grew old enough to be put to school and she had not wherewithal to send him. But love is quick-
