“If he does come while you are here,” again said aunt. “But you are done thinking about it, Rosamonde, and going on with your writing.” She looked as if she were deprecating some hurt I had given her. “Oh, well, aunt, I am only writing a letter, and can write and talk at the same time.” “This is strange; but your uncle can do just so, while I can never think of but one thing at a time. What I was going to say was, that you ought to stay longer than you say. Alfred will surely be up in the spring, if he don’t come this winter; and you ought to see our New England scenery in the summer, now that you are old enough to appreciate it. ‘The Switzerland of America’ you know our state has been called, although your uncle says ‘Poh!’ to this. He and Alfred both seem to think New England as good as Switzerland; or, at any rate, good enough without borrowing names for it.” “As it certainly is, aunt.” Finding that this was all I had to say, that I had no remark to make respecting Alfred Cullen, she added, hesitatingly-- “Paulina is, to be sure, my own niece--she and Alice were like twins, almost. She is a good little girl as ever was; but, somehow, it seems to me, ever since you came, that Alfred would like you best.” Again aunt’s voice became a little husky, and again a little panic ran along my nerves. “Still, I do think,” added aunt, “that he grows more particular in his attentions to Paulina every time he comes up. And, lately, they correspond occasionally, although Paulina keeps a close mouth about it, so that neither her mother nor I know what it amounts to. Paulina is reckoned very pretty.” “She is very pretty, indeed, aunt, with a beautiful complexion.” “Yes, this is true; but, somehow, her beauty is of a very common kind. Alice’s wasn’t; yours isn’t. You and Alice are alike, or were, only you have a better form for those who like dignity. And you have more courage: you are all Hedelquiver; she was half Monroe.” “You estimate me very kindly, dear aunt,” said I, grateful for the cordial words and tones. “Well, I like you, somehow, better and better every day. You are calm and strong, like your uncle. I always like to have such people with me, I suppose because I am so nervous and weak myself. Alfred is nervous, too, I think, although he commands himself perfectly.” Thus it was Alfred, Alfred, all day, and for, many days, until I was quite tired of it; until I wished that there was no Alfred Cullen in the universe. She said to me this morning, in a way as if she were doubtful whether it would recommend him to me--“Alfred writes beautiful poetry, they say. I saw a piece he wrote on ‘Night,’ and it was very beautiful I thought.” “Writes poetry, does he!” said I, determined to exorcise him and his praises. “I am sorry! I can never bear a man to be always scribbling poetry, whenever the moon shines, or any thing happens.”