e late fall when
she comes to church, her sweet old face shining under her black hat, her
old-fashioned silk skirt giving out an audible, not unimpressive sound
as she moves down the aisle. With what dignity she steps into her pew!
With what care she sits down so that she may not crush the cookies in
her ample pocket; with what meek pride--if there is such a thing as meek
pride--she looks up at the Scotch Preacher as he stands sturdily in his
pulpit announcing the first hymn! And many an eye turning that way to
look turns with affection.

Several times Harriet and I have been with her to tea. Like many another
genius, she has no conception of her own art in such matters as apple
puddings. She herself prefers graham gems, in which she believes there
inheres a certain mysterious efficacy. She bakes gems on Monday and has
them steamed during the remainder of the week--with tea.

And as a sort of dessert she tells us about the Danas, the Aikens and
the Carnahans, who are, in various relationships, her progenitors. We
gravitate into the other room, and presently she shows us, in the plush
album, the portraits of various cousins, aunts and uncles. And by-and-by
Harriet warms up and begins to tell about the Scribners, the
MacIntoshes, and the Strayers, who are _our_ progenitors.

"The Aikens," says Miss Aiken, "were always like that--downright and
outspoken. It is an Aiken trait. No Aiken could ever help blurting out
the truth if he knew he were to die for it the next minute."

"That was like the Macintoshes," Harriet puts in. "Old Grandfather
Macintosh----"

By this time I am settled comfortably in the cushioned rocking-chair to
watch the fray. Miss Aiken advances a Dana, Harriet counters with a
Strayer. Miss Aiken deploys the Carnahans in open order, upon which
Harriet entrenches herself with the heroic Scribners and lets fly a
Macintosh who was a general in the colonial army. Surprised, but not
defeated, Miss Aiken withdraws in good order, covering her retreat with
two _Mayflower_ ancestors, the existence of whom she establishes with a
blue cup and an ancient silver spoon. No one knows the joy of fighting
relatives until he has watched such a battle, following the complete
comfort of a good supper.

If any one is sick in the community Miss Aiken hears instantly of it by
a sort of wireless telegraphy, or telepathy which would astonish a
mystery-loving East Indian. She appears with her little basket, which
has two brow