As
the curtain falls with the approach of winter, I hurry to my Edinburgh
home and pray for the prompt return of early spring.
For many years my aged relatives, the Misses Amelia and Deborah
Harbordeens, lived at Hennersley. Rarest and kindest of old ladies,
they were the human prototypes of the flowers both they and I loved.
Miss Amelia, with her beautiful complexion, rounded form and regal
mien, suggested to my childish mind more, much more, than the mere
semblance of a rose, whilst Miss Deborah, with her sprightly grace and
golden hair, was only masquerading as a woman--she was in reality a
daffodil.
Unlike so many of the fair sex who go in for gardening, my aunts were
essentially dainty. Their figures were shapely and elegant, their
hands slim and soft. I never saw them working without gloves, and I
have good reason to believe they anointed their fingers every night
with a special preparation to keep them smooth and white. They were
not--decidedly not--"brainy," neither were they accomplished, never
having made any special study of the higher arts; but they evinced
nevertheless the keenest appreciation of painting, music, and
literature. Their library--a large one--boasted a delightful
harbourage of such writers as Jane Austen, Miss Mitford, and Maria
Edgeworth. And in their drawing-room, on the walls of which art was
represented by the old as well as modern masters, might be seen and
sometimes heard--for the Misses Harbordeens often entertained--a
well-tuned Broadwood, and a Bucksen harpsichord.
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