I remember once, on the occasion of my customary good-morning to Miss
Amelia, who invariably breakfasted in bed, I inhaled the most
delicious odour of heliotrope. It was wafted towards me, in a cool
current of air, as I approached her bed, and seemed, to my childish
fancy, to be the friendly greeting of a sparkling sunbeam that rested
on Miss Amelia's pillow.
I was so charmed with the scent, that, alas! forgetful of my manners,
I gave a loud sniff, and with a rapturous smile ejaculated, "Oh!
Auntie! Cherry pie!"
Miss Amelia started. "Dear me, child!" she exclaimed, "how quietly you
entered. I had no idea you were in the room. Heliotrope is the name of
the scent, my dear, but please do not allude to it again. Your Aunt
Deborah and I are very fond of it"--here she sighed--"but for certain
reasons--reasons you would not understand--we do not like to hear the
word heliotrope mentioned. Kiss me, dear, and run away to your
breakfast."
For the first time in my life, perhaps, I was greatly puzzled. I could
not see why I should be forbidden to refer to such a pleasant and
harmless subject--a subject that, looked at from no matter what point
of view, did not appear to me to be in the slightest degree
indelicate. The more I thought over it, the more convinced I became
that there was some association between the scent and the sunbeam,
and in that association I felt sure much of the mystery lay.
The house was haunted--agreeably, delightfully haunted by a golden
light, a perfumed radiant light that could only have in my mind one
origin, one creator--Titania--Titania, queen of the fairies, the
guardian angel of my aged, my extremely aged relatives.
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