“Do you remember how the poor queen in the fairy tale dreaded to meet the dwarf because she knew she didn’t know his name? Well, that was just like me when the train was near Springfield. If it hadn’t been for the dear Colonel, whom I told you about in my train letter, I don’t believe I could ever have been as calm as I truly _outwardly_ was; because, daddy, I felt as though I didn’t know grandmother at all, any more than the poor queen, and I did dread seeing her. But I was tidy, and my heart didn’t beat on the outside, for which blessings I could well be thankful. The Colonel carried my bag for me, and that made it easier, for, of course, family pride forbade my allowing him to see that my grandmother and I weren’t really well acquainted. “And, after all, it wasn’t so bad. Aunt Nan is dear, father, like mother, I know, and I love her already. She is not so _proper_ as grandmother. _I_ kissed Aunt Nan, and _grandmother_ kissed me. That explains the way they made me feel, Grandmother _is_ handsome, isn’t she? And stately, like an old portrait. But when you talk with her you feel as though there were some one else inside your skin. “I do hope they don’t disapprove of me now, and will by and by care for me for mother’s sake and yours. Aunt Nan likes me now, I am sure, and grandmother, I am reasonably sure, doesn’t dislike me, though I think she considers me somewhat puzzling. She looks at me sometimes like we used to look at the tame foxes, when we weren’t sure what they were going to do next. “Do you remember how the country looked coming from Springfield to Webster, when you came with mother? It was in September when you came, you said, and I remembered it. The creeks, which they call ‘brooks’ here, are lovely, though not so swift as ours, and the oaks and maples are a wonderful color in among the fir trees. I know you remember the goldenrod and asters, because mother always told about them. Didn’t you miss the quaking-asps, father? I did the first thing, and asked grandmother about them,—if none grew in Vermont. She didn’t know what I was talking about. She had no idea it was a tree, and thought I meant a bug, like that which killed poor Cleopatra. But I missed them, and I think the fall is sadder without them, because they are always so merry. I missed the cottonwoods, too. Aunt Nan said there were a few of those in New England, but they called them Carolina poplars.