I can remember Aunt Mary only in one particular way; and when her name is called, and she steps out from the dim, almost forgotten past, I see the tall, spare old woman, with two or three long teeth and a wisp of snow-white hair, and a dress with stripes running up and down, making her seem even taller and thinner than she really was. I see her, through the side door which opened from the room which was kitchen, dining-room, and living-room combined. I am a barefooted child standing on the stone steps outside, and looking in through the open door. I am nibbling slowly and prudently at a delicious nut-cake, and wondering if there are any more where that one came from, and if she will bring me another when this is eaten up, and thinking that if I really knew she would I need not make this one last so long. Almost opposite the door stands the cooking-stove. I can see it now, with its two short legs in front, and its two tall ones in the back. There is the sliding hearth, used to regulate the draught. Back of this, and above the hearth, is the little square iron box where wood is put in; over this are the holes for pots and kettles; and farther back, and above all, is the tall oven almost on a level with Aunt Mary’s shoulders. On the oven is a pan of dish-water, and she is wringing out a rag and for the thousandth time wiping the spotless oven. When this is done, she goes downstairs to the cellar, and gets the butter in the little tin pail, then goes to the cupboard and finds another nut-cake and brings them to the door. Then she looks carefully down to the stone steps to see if I have left any crumbs, and puts the pail and the nut-cake into my waiting hands. Before I go, she asks me about my father and mother, my brothers and sisters; whether the washing has been done this week; whether my sister is going to take music-lessons this fall; whether there is water enough in the dam to run the mill; and then she bids me hurry home lest the butter should melt on the way.