e other; but I am not sure which."

Monday came; and after her lonely Christmas, Anne was glad to step into
Miss Teller's carriage, and be taken to the home on the Avenue. The
cordial welcome she received there was delightful to her, the luxury
novel. She enjoyed everything simply and sincerely, from the late
breakfast in the small warm breakfast-room, from which the raw light of
the winter morning was carefully excluded, to the chat with Helen over
the dressing-room fire late at night, when all the house was still.
Helen's aunt, Miss Teller, was a thin, light-eyed person of fifty-five
years of age. Richly dressed, very tall, with a back as immovable and
erect as though made of steel, and a tower of blonde lace on her head,
she was a personage of imposing aspect, but in reality as mild as a
sheep.

"Yes, my dear," she said, when Anne noticed the tinted light in the
breakfast-room; "I take great care about light, which I consider an
influence in our households too much neglected. The hideous white glare
in most American breakfast-rooms on snowy winter mornings has often made
me shudder when I have been visiting my friends; only the extremely
vigorous can enjoy this sharp contact with the new day. Then the
aesthetic effect: children are always homely when the teeth are changing
and the shoulder-blades prominent; and who wishes to see, besides, each
freckle and imperfection upon the countenances of those he loves? I have
observed, too, that even morning prayer, as a family observance, fails
to counter-act the influence of this painful light. For if as you kneel
you cover your face with your hands, the glare will be doubly unbearable
when you remove them; and if you do _not_ cover your brow, you will
inevitably blink. Those who do not close their eyes at all are the most
comfortable, but I trust we would all prefer to suffer rather than be
guilty of such irreverence."

"Now that is Aunt Gretta exactly," said Helen, as Miss Teller left the
room. "When you are once accustomed to her height and blonde caps, you
will find her soft as a down coverlet."

Here Miss Teller returned. "My dear," she said, anxiously, addressing
Anne, "as to soap for the hands--what kind do you prefer?"

"Anne's hands are beautiful, and she will have the white soap in the
second box on the first shelf of the store-room--the rose; _not_ the
heliotrope, which is mine," said Helen, taking one of the young girl's
hands, and spreading out the firm tape