Elizabeth Ann and Aunt Abigail lay very still for a long time, Aunt Abigail reading out of a small, worn old book. Elizabeth Ann could see its title, “Essays of Emerson.” A book with that name had always laid on the center table in Aunt Harriet’s house, but that copy was all new and shiny, and Elizabeth Ann had never seen anybody look inside it. It was a very dull-looking book, with no pictures and no conversation. The little girl lay on her back, looking up at the cracks in the plaster ceiling and watching the shadows sway and dance as the candle flickered in the gusts of cold air. She herself began to feel a soft, pervasive warmth. Aunt Abigail’s great body was like a stove. It was very, very quiet, quieter than any place Elizabeth Ann had ever known, except church, because a trolley-line ran past Aunt Harriet’s house and even at night there were always more or less bangings and rattlings. Here there was not a single sound except the soft, whispery noise when Aunt Abigail turned over a page as she read steadily and silently forward in her book. Elizabeth Ann turned her head so that she could see the round, rosy old face, full of soft wrinkles, and the calm, steady old eyes which were fixed on the page. And as she lay there in the warm bed, watching that quiet face, something very queer began to happen to Elizabeth Ann. She felt as though a tight knot inside her were slowly being untied. She felt—what was it she felt? There are no words for it. From deep within her something rose up softly ... she drew one or two long, half-sobbing breaths.... [Illustration: “Do you know,” said Aunt Abigail, “I think it’s going to be real nice, having a little girl in the house again.”] Aunt Abigail laid down her book and looked over at the child. “Do you know,” she said, in a conversational tone, “do you know, I think it’s going to be real nice, having a little girl in the house again.” Oh, then the tight knot in the little unwanted girl’s heart was loosened indeed! It all gave way at once, and Elizabeth Ann burst suddenly into hot tears—yes, I know I said I would not tell you any more about her crying; but these tears were very different from any she had ever shed before. And they were the last, too, for a long, long time. Aunt Abigail said, “Well, well!” and moving over in bed took the little weeping girl into her arms. She did not say another word then, but she put her soft, withered old cheek close against Elizabeth Ann’s, till the sobs began to grow less, and then she said: “I hear your kitty crying outside the door. Shall I let her in? I expect she’d like to sleep with you. I guess there’s room for three of us.”