None of us liked Aunt Louisa. She was old, and had reddish false hair, and was fat, and took snuff, and talked a great deal. She belonged to the United Presbyterian church, and went every Sunday, and sat in a pew clear up in front and a little on one side. Father and mother did not like her, though they were nice to her when she came to visit them, and sometimes they went to visit her. They said she came to see what she could find to talk about and then would go and tell it to the neighbors; and for this reason we must be very careful when she was there. Aunt Louisa was a “widow woman,” as she always said; her husband had been killed by a horse many years before. She used often to tell us all about how it happened, and it took her a long while to tell it, and my father said that each time it took her longer than before. She had a little house down a lane about three-quarters of a mile away, and a few acres of ground which her husband had left her; and she used to visit a great deal, calling on all the neighbors in regular turn, a good deal like the school-teacher who boarded around. I remember that we had a nice clean tablecloth and a good supper the night she came, and we all got along well at the table. We said “Please” every time, and our mother never once had to look at us. After supper we went into the parlor for a visit with Aunt Louisa. This must have been only a little while before my mother’s death; for I can see her plainer that night than at any other time. I wish I could remember the tones of her voice; but their faintest echo has entirely passed away, and I am not sure I should know them if they were spoken in my ear. Her face, too, seems hidden by a mist, and is faded and indistinct. Yet there she sits in her little sewing-chair, rocking back and forth, with her needle in her hand and her basket on her lap. Poor woman! she was busy every minute, and I suppose she never would have had a chance to rest if she had not gone up to the churchyard for her last long sleep when we were all so young.