But Aunt Henshaw, I must confess, won my heart less by her own individual merits than a present she once made me, which actually appeared to me like a windfall from the skies.  I was always inordinately fond of reading, and my predelictions for fairy tales amounted to an actual passion.  When Mammy and Jane’s ingenuity had been exhausted in framing instances of the marvellous for my special gratification, I would often fold my hands before my face, to shut out all actual scenes, and thus sit and dream of wonderful adventures with fairies, witches, and enchanted princesses.  I was always happier in a reverie than in the company of others—­my own ideals I could make as I chose—­the real I must take as I found it.  Castle-building is a pleasant but dangerous occupation; had I not been so much of an enthusiast, a day-dreamer, it would have been better for my happiness.

But to return to Aunt Henshaw and her present.  Some school-mate one day told me of the varied wonders contained in the “Arabian Kights.”  My imagination, always excitable, became worked up to a high pitch by tales of diamond caverns, flying horses, and mysterious Baloons under ground.  If I went to sleep, it was to dream of gardens more beautiful than Paradise itself—­of cooling fountains springing up at every step—­of all sorts of impossible fruits growing just where you wanted them—­and lamps and songs that gratified every wish.  At length I could bear these tantalizing visions of unattainable pleasure no longer; I put on my bonnet and determined to go the whole rounds of the village until I met with some success.  People wondered what ailed me that afternoon; I bolted directly into a room—­asked if they had the Arabian Nights—­and, on being answered in the negative, went out as expeditiously as I had gone in, and tried another acquaintance.  I was not easily daunted, and took each one in succession, but all to no purpose; I returned home, fairly sick with disappointment, and hope delayed.

The very next day Aunt Henshaw came down on a visit; and placing in my hands an old-looking, leather-covered book, observed, “I happened to come across this stowed away in an old chest, Amy, and knowing your fondness for fairy tales, I have brought it for you to read.”

I scarcely heard what she said; I had glanced at the book, and on seeing “Arabian Nights” traced in large gilt letters, the ground seemed swimming before me, and I could scarcely contain my senses.  Seizing the beloved book, I made my escape as quickly as possible; and mounting up to the cupola, a tiny room with glass sides, that commanded a view of the country round, I effectually secured myself against interruption, and soon became fascinated out of all remembrance.  The day waned into evening—­the shadows deepened around—­I remember fixing my eyes on a brilliant star that seemed to come closer and closer, until it assumed a strangely beautiful form, and I lost all consciousness.