Never was it more so than when at noon one washing day the stage coach drove up to the house, and, unannounced, two ladies descended from it, the driver following with a trunk which he deposited in the hall and departed. Miss Whittier faced the strangers with the trepidation of a housekeeper who conjures up visions of dust where none should be and who--still worse--takes counsel with herself concerning the state of the larder. Her welcome of her visitors, although kindly, was not wholly free from embarrassment. But these were housekeepers also; and they understood, it may be far more than it was desired that they should do. For, the next moment one of them sat down upon her trunk and burst into tears of mortification at their having in this way imposed themselves upon strangers. With the first tear, however, the distress of their hostess fled. She no longer cared a jot for household disarray--which had been chiefly a matter of her own imagination--and her welcome of her guests was the beginning of a life-long friendship with Alice and Phoebe Cary. * * * * * Elizabeth Whittier, this very dainty Quaker lady, was exquisite in her hues of drab when occasion demanded; yet with all her feminine nature she loved the colors most becoming to her dark complexion and hair and her beautiful dark eyes. When the summer sun shone hot, a visitor might find her charmingly, although most simply gowned in a pink cambric, or even a buff one which was quite as much to her taste, her white linen cuffs turned up over the wristbands and her collar of linen in the fashion of the day. Yet it was artistic instinct and not vanity which made these selections. For Miss Whittier’s estimate of herself was always most humble. She never appreciated her own brilliance of face and conversation and her own great charm of manner. Herself dark, she delighted in fairness of skin and could not picture angels other than blue-eyed and golden-haired. She was very fond of music, well nigh forbidden to Quakers in those days; and a young neighbor with a very sweet voice would often go to her home and sing to her, to Miss Whittier’s great delight. So sensitive to sound was she that voices took shapes to her; they were round, and square, and of different shapes, some of them, no doubt, angular enough! A little girl visiting relatives in Amesbury went one day with these to the poet’s home. She had never seen either the poet or his sister, and Miss Whittier’s prominent nose, indicative of her literary taste, but to a child exceedingly pronounced, caught her attention. She stared at it steadily, until Whittier who had been watching her covered her with confusion by saying to her: “Well, and how does thee like Quaker noses?” What hospitality, what cordiality in Miss Whittier’s way of leading along a guest by the hand given in greeting, until she had placed her in the most comfortable seat!