Perhaps I wronged our school-teacher; I think I did, for she has since died; but really I fancied she kept us longer that night on purpose.  At least, it was nearly five before we were dismissed.  Then, with my bonnet in hand, I ran for home, falling down once and bursting off the lower hook!  I entered the house with a bound, but was quieted by grandmother, who said Emma was lying down, and I mustn’t disturb her.

After waiting some time for her to make her appearance, I stole softly up the stairs and looked in where she was.  She saw me, and instantly rising, said with a smile that went to my heart: 

“And this must be Mary, the little crazy girl; come and kiss your Cousin Emma.”

Twining my arms around her neck, I think I must have cried, for she repeatedly asked me what was the matter, and as I could think of no better answer, I at last told her “I didn’t like to have folks call me crazy.  I couldn’t help acting like Sal Furbush, the old crazy woman, who threatened to toss us up in the umbrella.”

“Forgive me, darling,” said Emma coaxingly; “I will not do it again;” then stooping down, she looked intently into my eyes, soliloquizing, “Yes, it is wrong to tell her so.”

In a few moments I concluded Emma was the most beautiful creature in the world; I would not even except Carrie Howard.  Emma’s features were perfectly regular, and her complexion white and pure as alabaster.  Her hair, which was a rich auburn, lay around her forehead in thick waves, but her great beauty consisted in her lustrous blue eyes, which were very large and dark.  When she was pleased they laughed, and when she was sad they were sad too.  Her dress was a white muslin wrapper, confined at the waist by a light blue ribbon, while one of the same hue encircled her neck, and was fastened by a small gold pin, which, with the exception of the costly diamond ring on her finger, was the only ornament she wore.

When supper was ready I proudly led her to the dining-room, casting a look of triumph at Juliet and Anna, and feeling, it may be, a trifle above grandmother, who said, “Don’t be troublesome, child.”

How grateful I was when Emma answered for me, “She doesn’t trouble me in the least; I am very fond of children.”

Indeed, she seemed to be very fond of everybody and everything—­all except Sally’s Dutch cheese, which, as I expected, she hardly relished.  In less than three days she was beloved by all the household, Billy whispering to me confidentially that “never before had he seen any one except mother, whom he would like to marry.”

Saturday afternoon Carrie and Agnes called on Emma, and as I saw them together I fancied I had never looked on three more charming faces.  They appeared mutually pleased with each other, too, although for some reason there seemed to be more affinity between Emma and Agnes.  Carrie appeared thoughtful and absent-minded, which made Anna joke her about her “lover, Penoyer.”  As she was about leaving the room she made no reply, but after she was gone Agnes looked searchingly at Anna and said: