very important, we love the same way of living.”
“That’s quite true, Carrie—lyn,” Aunt Julia interposed, the tears in her eyes, but a new decision in her voice.
“I like my tea at night, and so does your Cousin Lorando. And I should have wanted gravy on my potato if I lived to be a hundred. And, Carrie, I could not live without a cellar!
“And if you knew how nervous I got when that old dumb-waiter in the kitchen used to whistle for the things to be put on it! I used to hate it so—sometimes I’d wake up in the night and think I heard it! Once I lost my temper at it, and I answered it back: ‘I haven’t anything to go down, and I wouldn’t give it to you if I had!’”
“Why, Aunt Jule!” they cried.
“And I tell you, Carrie, when you have cleaned house regularly, spring and fall, for forty years, ever since you were born, it makes an awful break to give it
