She had a handful of crushed thyme in her lap, and some pennyroyal.
"It isn't roses," Miss Deborah remarked, "but it is better than Ruth's turpentine.

And so long as I have got to sit here (for I will sit here while she's copying the miniature; it is a sacred charge), the pennyroyal is stronger than the paint." Miss Ruth, her hands neatly gloved, was mixing her colors a little wearily; somehow, on her canvas, the face of the little sister lost what beauty it had ever known.
"I can't get the eyes," Miss Ruth sighed.

"I have a great mind to help you with your preserving, sister." "My dear Ruth," said Miss Deborah, with much dignity, "do I try to do your work ?" "But you know you couldn't paint, dear Deborah," said the younger sister eagerly.

The round china-blue eyes of the little sister stared at her maliciously.
"Well," returned Miss Deborah, running her small hand through the gooseberries in the bowl, "neither could you make gooseberry jelly, or even a tart." Then seeing her nephew lounging down the flagged path to the door of the studio, his straw hat pushed back and his hands in his pockets, she was suddenly reminded of his packing.

"I hope, Giff, dear," she cried, "you left plenty of room in your trunk?
I have a number of articles I want you to take." "There's lots of room, aunt Deborah," he answered.