"She is just wonderful," the old lady would declare, in confidential chats with Uncle Eli. "There she has been brought up in a great city, her folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn't spoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk full of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks here, but not a bit of it! She's devouring the old yellow books in the bookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down the 'History of the Reformation,' and there she sat the whole forenoon, never stirred or looked up as I went in and out—so deep in her book. In the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit over Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons for getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I had, too. They were: 'That he might please his father, spite the Pope, and vex the devil.' Said she, 'I should have wanted him to have one more reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy—the only reason—because he loved me.' She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before I thought, and I said, 'Of course he would. How could anybody help loving you, dearie?' You ought to 'a' seen her pretty blush, then; exactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She's reading 'Paradise Lost,' now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she is up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She's a regular old-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn't raise such girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time dressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they couldn't stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn't any piety nor anything else—nothing but pretty faces. Now, there's Marian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with the baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that, she's truly pious. She isn't going to make one of the strong-minded kind, either—stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge fence. She's as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I never thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of the window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o' dancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her eyes. I said to myself, 'Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and she will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then take herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is my great-niece.' But here she has been, week after week, and don't want to go home yet."