The beauty of Rachel seemed each day more brilliant.  Amid such happy influences, the lively, genial side of her nature expanded like a flower in the sunshine.  “The soul of Rachel Lowe,” having no longer to stand alone, bearing the weight of its own sorrows, brought its energies to promote the happiness of us all.  She contrived pleasant surprises, and charmed Aunt Huldah with her constant acts of kindness.  She sang beautiful songs, and filled the house with flowers; and when we sat long, in the cool of the evening, out under the trees, she would relate strange, wild stories which she had heard from her mother,—­stories of other times and distant lands.

Meanwhile Aunt Huldah was as kind as heart could wish, treating us tenderly, and as if we were little children; and one stormy night, when we four sat with her in the keeping-room, talking, until daylight faded, and the short twilight left us nearly in darkness, she told us some things about her own youth, things of which, by daylight, she would never have spoken,—­and told, too, of a dear, only brother, who was ruined for all time, and, she feared, for eternity also, from being crossed in love by the strong will of his father.  Aunt Huldah had a tender heart.  Her voice grew thick and hoarse, while telling the story.  I was always glad we had that talk.  It made us know her better.  She lived only a year after.  She died in June, when the grass was green and the roses were in bloom,—­just a year from that Sabbath I spent at home, that perfect day when I walked to meeting with Rachel up the grassy lane.  With sad hearts, we laid her to rest in a spot that she loved, where the sweet-fern and wild-roses were growing,—­with sad, grateful hearts, for she had been to us as father, mother, and true friend.  We loved her for the affection she showed, and still more for that which we knew she concealed within herself,—­for the tenderness she would not let be revealed.

The next year Rachel and I were married, thus making the month of June trebly sacred.  We had a double wedding; for the young minister, finding that he had looked at Fanny too long for his own tranquillity, proposed to mend matters in a way which no one whose faculties were not strangely betwisted by love would ever have thought of.  And my sister must either have secretly liked the plan, or else have lost her old faculty of managing; for, when he said, “Come, Fanny, and let us dwell together in the parsonage,” she went, just as quiet as a lamb.

Rachel and I remained, and do remain to this day, at the old house.  Fanny said we ought to go into the world,—­that I might possibly become brilliant, and Rachel would certainly be admired.  But the first of these suggestions had little weight with me; and Rachel said how nice it would be to live here among the apple-trees, near Fanny, to read books, sing songs, and so have a good time all our lives!

“And have nobody but Charley see how handsome you are!” exclaimed Fanny.