herself very slowly, because it was a new idea to her, and she was halfway through her tour of inspection of the house before there glimmered on her lips, in a faint smile, the first recognition of humor in all her life.  She felt a momentary impulse to call down to Cousin Ann that she saw the point, but before she had taken a single step toward the head of the stairs she had decided not to do this.  Cousin Ann, with her bright, dark eyes, and her straight back, and her long arms, and her way of speaking as though it never occurred to her that you wouldn’t do just as she said—­Elizabeth Ann was not very sure that she liked Cousin Ann, and she was very sure that she was afraid of her.

So she went on, walking from one room to another, industriously eating the red apple, the biggest she had ever seen.  It was the best, too, with its crisp, white flesh and the delicious, sour-sweet juice which made Elizabeth Ann feel with each mouthful like hurrying to take another.  She did not think much more of the other rooms in the house than she had of the kitchen.  There were no draped “throws” over anything; there were no lace curtains at the windows, just dotted Swiss like the kitchen; all the ceilings were very low; the furniture was all of dark wood and very old-looking; what few rugs there were were of bright-colored rags; the mirrors were queer and old, with funny old pictures at the top; there wasn’t a brass bed in any of the bedrooms, just old wooden ones with posts, and curtains round the tops; and there was not a single plush portiere in the parlor, whereas at Aunt Harriet’s there had been two sets for that one room.

She was relieved at the absence of a piano and secretly rejoiced that she would not need to practice.  In her heart she had not liked her music lessons at all, but she had never dreamed of not accepting them from Aunt Frances as she accepted everything else.  Also she had liked to hear Aunt Frances boast about how much better she could play than other children of her age.

She was downstairs by this time, and, opening a door out of the parlor, found herself back in the kitchen, the long line of sunny windows and the bright flowers giving her that quick little thrill again.  Cousin Ann looked up from her ironing, nodded, and said:  “All through?  You’d better come in and get warmed up.  Those rooms get awfully cold these January days.  Winters we mostly use this room so’s to get the good of the kitchen stove.”  She added after a moment, during which Elizabeth Ann stood by the stove, warming her hands:  “There’s one place you haven’t seen yet—­the milk-room.  Mother’s down there now, churning.  That’s the door—­the middle one.”

Elizabeth Ann had been wondering and wondering where in the world Aunt Abigail was.  So she stepped quickly to the door, and went dawn the cold dark stairs she found there.  At the bottom was a door, locked apparently, for she could find no fastening.  She heard steps inside, the door was briskly cast open, and she almost fell into the arms of Aunt Abigail, who caught her as she stumbled forward, saying:  “Well, I’ve been expectin’ you down here for a long time.  I never saw a little girl yet who didn’t like to watch butter-making.  Don’t you love to run the butter-worker over it?  I do, myself, for all I’m seventy-two!”