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 blame him for loving her, I knew that my love for her was so great that I would not knowingly give her any pain, and it seemed to me his love must be less than it should be, for he could not fail to know it troubled her and should have desisted.  In a few days after our conversation Louis came.

Clara had, since she realized Mr. Benton’s feelings toward her, been very careful in the selection of her wearing apparel, choosing for her daily use the plainest dresses.  But on the day of Louis’ arrival she said to me, as we went up stairs after dinner was cleared away: 

“Emily, will you put on the dress that becomes you so well?” It was a garnet merino she alluded to, a gift from herself.