had it among his little treasures, and kept the same
bean in it that was there when she died. I wished a thousand times and
more that my name might be Elizabeth, but Emily was given me by a sister
of father's who desired me to be her namesake, and if I had been more
like her in my young years I should never have been likened to a "fierce
wind," as Clara so truly termed me. This Aunt Emily had gone to her
heavenly home, as had many of my mother's family. She was one of eleven
children, and at this date only one brother, Peter, and a sister, Phebe,
were living. Mother had a beautiful sister, Sallie, who died young, and
whom I loved to hear about. She painted her picture in words for me, and
I could see her dark blue eyes, her brown hair that looked like satin,
and her pink cheeks, almost as if I had really seen and known her. And
when this heaven, that sometimes seemed so like far off mist, grew
nearer, I imagined the meeting of them all, and enjoyed the pleasant
picture which lay before my mind's eye like a waiting promise of whose
fulfillment I felt sure. Clara and Aunt Hildy had long conversations on
these subjects, and Aunt Hildy said to me when speaking of these talks:

"Oh! I love her white soul, Emily; she allus brings heaven right down to
airth, and even when she don't talk I feel so kind of blessed when I sit
near her. Few such folks are let to live, and somehow I'm almost
convinced she can't stay long," and the corner of her blue-checked apron
would touch her humid eyes, as she turned again to her work.

Work was a matter of principle with her, and to neglect one duty
unnecessarily, no light offense. She was as true to her highest
conviction of right as the needle to the pole, and held the truth close
to her heart--so close that all her outer life was in correspondence
with her interior perceptions. Truly her light was not under a bushel.

I hoped her fear of Clara's death would not soon be realized, for it did
not seem as if we could bear to lose her presence. Never in any way
could she intrude herself, for her nature moved her in perpetual lines,
whose shadow never fell on the path of another. I felt sorry that she
should be troubled, and I fear my dark eyes now and then shot telling
glances at Mr. Benton.

The more she tried, even in her graceful way, to repel his advances, the
more determined he was to gain access to her heart. In this I could
detect the selfish part of his nature, and while I could not bl