I must not tell you more about this grandfather, whose history filled me full of wonder, but must hasten on to meet Aunt Phebe, who came according to appointment, and found a warm reception.  She had a fine face, was tall and well-formed, her hair was a light-brown, and her eyes a bright, pure blue; she had a pleasant mouth and evenly set teeth, and she was a sweet singer.  She is yet living, and sings to-day a “Rose tree in full blooming” with as sweet a cadence as when I was a child.

Clara was drawn toward her, and brought some of her best thoughts to the surface; read to her some of her own little poems, and wrote one for her, speaking tenderly of the past and hopefully of the future.  Aunt Phebe had a nature to appreciate the beautiful, and ought herself to have been given the privilege of a later day, that she might have expressed her own good and true thoughts.  She was a member of the Baptist church, and while we had no fear of condemnation from her lips, we knew she had not as yet tested this new thought that was now agitating our minds.  She said she would like to go with us to hear “Father Ballou,” as he was called by the Universalist people, and Clara, said: 

“Well, Mrs. ——­, the day is coming when all shall see and rejoice at the knowledge they have long desired; this will be the real fruit that has been promised by the hope of the soul for years; and it is not new, it is an old, old truth, and for this reason there will be less preparation needed to accept it.  The soil is ready, and the hand of the age will drop the seed in the furrows which the years have made.”

“This talk is as good as a sermon,” said Aunt Phebe, “I would like to hear you every week.  Learning the work of wisdom is not an easy task, and all these thoughts come as helping hands to us; we are never too old to learn.”

Aunt Phebe was free from all vanity; she dressed simply, and was truly economical.  Her hands were never idle; she had always something to do; and during the few days she spent with us she insisted on helping.  A huge basket of mending yielded to her deft hands, and patches and darns were made without number.  These were among our great necessities, for, as in every other household, garments were constantly wearing out, and stitches breaking that must be again made good, and nothing could be appreciated more than her services in this direction.  Mother felt, however, that she was doing wrong to let her work at all.

“Phebe,” I heard her say one afternoon, as they sat in our middle room together, “you have stitches enough to take at home, and I feel condemned to see you so busy here.  You should have every moment to rest in; I wish you could stay longer, for I believe when these carpet rags are cut you will find nothing more to do, and then we could rest and talk together.  How I wish Sally and Polly and Thirza could be with us, and our brothers too!  Have you heard from Peter lately?”