It is hard to be quite alone in
the world; for, I agree, aunts don't count for much. Weighed in the
balance they are generally found woefully wanting.
I remember once, when we were laughing over some escapade of our
childhood you said you had no very pleasant recollection of your
childish days, that you didn't look forward to holidays and that your
happiest time was at school, because then you had companions.
I feel quite sad when I think what you missed. We were very lucky,
four of us growing up together, and I sometimes wonder if other
children had the same full, splendid time we had, and if they employed
it getting into as many scrapes. The village people, shaking their
heads over us and our probable end, used to say, "They're a' bad, but
the lassie (meaning me) is the verra deil." We were bad, but we were
also extraordinarily happy. I treasure up all sorts of memories, some
of them very trivial and absurd, store them away in lavender, and
when I feel dreary I take them out and refresh myself with them. One
episode I specially remember, though why I should tell you about it I
don't quite know, for it is a small thing and "silly sooth." We were
staying at the time with our grandmother, the grandmother I am called
for, a very stern and stately lady--the only person I have ever really
stood in awe of. We had been wandering all day, led by John, searching
for hidden treasure at the rainbow's foot, climbing high hills to
see if the world came to an end at the other side, or some equally
fantastic quest.
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