Her eyes were dark and had interesting twinkles in them that children loved; her hair was long and dark and very heavy, dressed in two wide braids that were wound round and round her lovely head in smooth coils, fitting close like a cap, but when it was unbraided and brushed out, it fell far below her knees and was like a garment folding her about. How I adored that hair and longed to have hair just like it! How I even used in secret to tie an old brown veil about my head and let it fall down my back, and try to see how it would feel to have hair like that. She had delicate features and a wonderful smile. Nobody else in the world looked just as lovely as did she. But once I found a picture of Longfellow's Evangeline in a photograph album, in exquisite classic profile, and thought it was her likeness. She was like that—if you have that old faded photograph somewhere in an old album with quaint clasps. She was wonderful! And she was young, gracious, and very good to be with. This radiant creature was known to me by the name of "Auntie Belle," though my mother and my grandmother, called her "Isabella!" Just like that! Even sharply sometimes when they disagreed with her—"Isabella!" I wondered that they dared. I sometimes resented it. Later I found that other people had still other names for her. To the congregation of which her husband was pastor she was known as "Mrs. Alden." It seemed to me too grownup a name for her and made her appear more stately and sedate than she really was. I remember resenting it that these strange people should seem to have rights in her. She was mine. What were they? But when a little later my world grew larger, and knowledge increased, I found that this precious aunt of mine did not belong entirely to us as I had supposed. She had another world in which she moved and had her being when she went from us from time to time; or when at certain hours in the day she shut herself within a room that was sacredly known as a "study," and wrote for a long time, while we all tried to keep still; and in this other world of hers she was known as "Pansy." It was a world that loved and honored her, a world that gave her homage and flowers, and wrote her letters by the hundreds each week. It was not long, too, before I had learned to preen myself like a young peacock because I "belonged" to her, and I am afraid I felt a superior pity and contempt for the thousands of other children who read her paper called "The Pansy" which she edited, but who did not "belong" to her. They could only write letters to her, while I could often be with her every day, sometimes for weeks, and could talk with her all I pleased.