ht years old,
and the little girl and the two old people were left alone in the yellow
farm-house.

A twelvemonth later, Grandfather Arden had a stroke of paralysis.--Don't
be too much discouraged, dear children; this is positively the last
death that I shall have occasion to chronicle in this story. But it
seemed necessary to show what sort of life Candace had lived, in order
to explain the sort of girl she was.--After her grandfather died, Aunt
Myra, aged sixty-nine, and little Cannie, aged nine, alone remained of
the once large household; and the farm-house seemed very big and empty,
and had strange echoes in all the unused corners.

It was a lonely place, and a lonely life for a child. Candace had few
enjoyments, and almost no young companions. She had never been used to
either, so she did not feel the want of them as most little girls would
have done. Aunt Myra was kind enough, and, indeed, fond of her in a
dry, elderly way; but she could not turn herself into a play-mate. It is
not often that a person who is as old as sixty-nine remembers how it
feels to play. Aunt Myra approved of Cannie especially, because she was
"such a quiet child;" but I think Cannie's mother would rather have had
her noisier.

"She's a nice girl as I want to see," Aunt Myra was wont to tell her
cronies. "She's likely-appearing enough,--and that's better than being
too pretty. And she's helpful about the house for such a young cretur,
and she's not a bit forth-putting or highty-tighty. I don't know how I
should have managed if Candace had turned out the sort of girl some of
'em are,--like those Buell girls, for instance, always raising Ned
because they can't get down to Hartford or Bridgeport to shop and see
the sights and have a good time. As if good times couldn't be had to
home as well as anywhere! Why, I reckon that Miss Buell has more fuss
and trouble in fitting out those girls every spring of her life than
I've had with Cannie since her mother died. She never makes one mite of
difficulty, or bothers with objections. She just puts on whatever I see
fit to get her; and she likes it, and there's the end."

This was not quite as true as Aunt Myra supposed. Candace wore whatever
it was ordained that she should wear, but she did not always "like" it.
From her mother she inherited a certain instinct of refinement and taste
which only needed the chance to show itself. But there was little chance
to exercise taste in the old yellow farm-hou