Emily felt a distinct shock of disappointment. After hearing that poem in which Nancy Murray’s beauty of nut-brown hair and starry brown eyes and cheek of satin rose had been be-rhymed she had somehow expected Great-Aunt Nancy, in spite of her ninety years, to be beautiful still. But Aunt Nancy was white-haired and yellow-skinned and wrinkled and shrunken, though her brown eyes were still bright and shrewd. Somehow, she looked like an old fairy—an impish, tolerant old fairy, who might turn suddenly malevolent if you rubbed her the wrong way—only fairies never wore long, gold-tasselled earrings that almost touched their shoulders, or white lace caps with purple pansies in them.
“So this is Juliet’s girl!” she said, giving Emily one of her sparkling hands. “Don’t look so startled, child. I’m not going to kiss you. I never held with inflicting kisses on defenseless creatures simply because they were so unlucky as to be my relatives. Now, who does she look like, Caroline?”
Emily made a mental grimace. Now for another ordeal of comparisons, wherein dead-and-gone noses and eyes and foreheads would be dragged out and fitted on her. She was thoroughly tired of having her looks talked over in every gathering of the clans.
“Not much like the Murrays,” said Caroline, peering so closely into her face that Emily involuntarily drew back. “Not so handsome as the Murrays.”
“Nor the Starrs either. Her father was a handsome man—so handsome that I’d have run away with him myself if I’d been fifty years younger. There’s nothing of Juliet in her that I can see. Juliet was pretty. You are not as good-looking as that picture made you out but I didn’t expect you would be. Pictures and epitaphs are never to be trusted. Where’s your bang gone, Emily?”
“Aunt Elizabeth combed it back.”
“Well, you comb it down again while you’re in my house. There’s something of your Grandfather Murray about your eyebrows. Your grandfather was a handsome man—and a darned bad-tempered one—almost as bad-tempered as the Priests—hey, Caroline?”
“If you please, Great-Aunt Nancy,” said Emily deliberately, “I don’t like to be told I look like other people. I look just like myself.”
Aunt Nancy chuckled.
“Spunk, I see. Good. I never cared for meek youngsters. So you’re not stupid, eh?”
“No, I’m not.”
Great-Aunt Nancy grinned this time. Her false teeth looked uncannily white and young in her old, brown face.
“Good. If you’ve brains it’s better than beauty—brains last, beauty doesn’t. Me, for example. Caroline here, now, never had either brains nor beauty, had you, Caroline? Come, let’s go to supper. Thank goodness, my stomach has stood by me if my good looks haven’t.”
Great-Aunt Nancy hobbled, by the aid of her stick, up the steps and over to the table. She sat at one end, Caroline at the other, Emily between, feeling rather uncomfortable. But the ruling passion was still strong in her and she was already composing a description of them for the blank book.
“I wonder if anybody will be sorry when you die,” she thought, looking intently at Caroline’s wizened old face.
“Come now, tell me,” said Aunt Nancy. “If you’re not stupid, why did you write me such a stupid letter that first time. Lord, but it was stupid! I read it over to Caroline to punish her whenever she is naughty.”
“I couldn’t write any other kind of a letter because Aunt Elizabeth said she was going to read it.”
“Trust Elizabeth for that. Well, you can write what you like here—and say what you like—and do what you like. Nobody will interfere with you or try to bring you up. I asked you for a visit, not for discipline. Thought likely you’d have enough of that at New Moon. You can have the run of the house and pick a beau to your liking from the Priest boys—not that the young fry are what they were in my time.”
“I don’t want a beau,” retorted Emily. She felt rather disgusted. Old Kelly had ranted about beaux half the way over and here was Aunt Nancy beginning on the same unnecessary subject.
“Don’t you tell me,” said Aunt Nancy, laughing till her gold tassels shook. “There never was a Murray of New Moon that didn’t like a beau. When I was your age I had half a dozen. All the little boys in Blair Water were fighting about me. Caroline here now never had a beau in her life, had you, Caroline?”
“Never wanted one,” snapped Caroline.
“Eighty and twelve say the same thing and both lie,” said Aunt Nancy. “What’s the use of being hypocrites among ourselves? I don’t say it isn’t well enough when men are about. Caroline, do you notice what a pretty hand Emily has? As pretty as mine when I was young. And an elbow like a cat’s. Cousin Susan Murray had an elbow like that. It’s odd—she has more Murray points than Starr points and yet she looks like the Starrs and not like the Murrays. What odd sums in addition we all are—the answer is never what you’d expect. Caroline, what a pity Jarback isn’t home. He’d like Emily—I have a feeling he’d like Emily. Jarback’s the only Priest that’ll ever go to heaven, Emily. Let’s have a look at your ankles, puss.”
Emily rather unwillingly put out her foot. Aunt Nancy nodded her satisfaction.
“Mary Shipley’s ankle. Only one in a generation has it. I had it. The Murray ankles are thick. Even your mother’s ankles were thick. Look at that instep, Caroline. Emily, you’re not a beauty but if you learn to use your eyes and hands and feet properly you’ll pass for one. The men are easily fooled and if the women say
