Helen and Arthur | Page 4

the same time she
stooped down and moistened the fibres, by slipping them through her
mouth, as it glided over the dwindling flax.
Helen, wrapped in yellow flannel from head to feet, with her little
white face peeping above, looked not unlike a pearl in golden setting. A
muslin night-cap perched on the top of her head, below which her hair
frisked about in defiance of comb or ribbon. The cheek next to the fire
was of a burning red, the other perfectly colorless. Her eyes, which
always looked larger and darker by night than by day, were fixed on
Miss Thusa's face with a mixture of reverence and admiration, which
its external lineaments did not seem to justify. The outline of that face
was grim, and the hair, profusely sprinkled with the ashes of age, was
combed back from the brow, in the fashion of the Shakers, adding

much to the rigid expression of the features. A pair of dark-rimmed
spectacles bestrided her forehead midway, appearing more for
ornament than use. Never did Nature provide a more convenient
resting-place for twin-glasses, than the ridge of Miss Thusa's nose,
which rose with a sudden, majestic elevation, suggesting the idea of
unexpectedness in the mind of the beholder. Every thing was harsh
about her face, except the eyes, which had a soft, solemn, misty look, a
look of prophecy, mingled with kindness and compassion, as if she
pitied the evils her far-reaching vision beheld, but which she had not
the power to avert. Those soft, solemn, prophetic eyes had the power of
fascination on the imagination of the young Helen, and night after night
she would creep to her side, after her mother had prepared her for bed,
heard her little Protestant pater noster, and left her, as she supposed,
just ready to sink into the deep slumbers of childhood. She did not
know the strange influence which was acting so powerfully on the
mind of her child, or rather she did not seem to be aware that her child
was old enough to receive impressions, deep and lasting as life itself.
Miss Thusa was a relic of antiquity, bequeathed by destiny to the
neighborhood in which she dwelt,--a lone woman, without a single
known relative or connection. Though the title of Aunt is generally
given to single ladies, who have passed the meridian of their days,
irrespective of the claims of consanguinity, no one dared to call her
Aunt Thusa, so great was her antipathy to the name. She had an equal
abhorrence to being addressed as Mrs., an honor frequently bestowed
on venerable spinsters. She said it did not belong to her, and she
disdained to shine in borrowed colors. So she retained her virgin
distinction, which she declared no earthly consideration would induce
her to resign.
She had formerly lived with a bachelor brother, a sickly misanthropist,
who had long shunned the world, and, as a natural consequence, was
neglected by it. But when it was known that the invalid was growing
weaker and weaker, and entirely dependent on the cares of his lonely
sister, the sympathies of strangers were awakened, and forcing their
way into the chamber of the sick man, they administered to his
sufferings and wants, till Miss Thusa learned to estimate, at its true

value, the kindness she at first repelled. After the death of the brother,
the families which composed the neighborhood where they dwelt,
feeling compassion for her loneliness and sorrow, invited her to divide
her time among them, and make their homes her own. One of her
eccentricities (and she had more than one,) was a passion for spinning
on a little wheel. Its monotonous hum had long been the music of her
lonely life; the distaff, with its swaddling bands of flax, the petted child
of her affections, and the thread which she manufactured the means of
her daily support. Wherever she went, her wheel preceded her, as an
avant courier, after the fashion of the shields of ancient warriors.
"Ah! Miss Thusa's coming--I know it by her wheel!" was the customary
exclamation, sometimes uttered in a tone of vexation, but more
frequently of satisfaction. She was so original and eccentric, had such
an inexhaustible store of ghost stories and fairy tales, sang so many
crazy old ballads, that children gathered round her, as a Sibylline oracle,
and mothers, who were not troubled with a superfluity of servants, were
glad to welcome one to their household who had such a wondrous
talent for amusing them, and keeping them still. In spite of all her
oddities, she was respected for her industry and simplicity, and a
certain quaint, old-fashioned, superstitious piety, that made a streak of
light through her character.
Grateful for the kindness and hospitality so liberally extended towards
her, she never