little of her. Cousins had told us that she had married beneath her and had somehow sunk in the world, but details were lacking. We had a vague idea that some- thing disgraceful had happened to Aunt Jemima. When we met her we were surprised.

She was a tall, handsome woman with gay, warm eyes and a voice which, when she raised it, could be heard a quarter of a mile away on those hot plains. She carried herself like a princess, and was treated like one by almost everybody, because that's the kind of person she was. She was afraid of nothing, regrett- ed nothing, complained of nothing, and was always a- lert to help anyone or anything in trouble. She could ride like a jackeroo, cook like a French chef, sing like a contralto angel, swim, play tennis and cricket, shear a sheep or sew a petticoat, with equal ease and enjoyment. She was the most accomplished person I have ever met, and the most vital. Her dark eyes mis- sed nothing and felt for everything: they could dance, flare, flash or melt with a sudden and wonderful ten- derness. I gave her my love and admiration on the day she arrived, and she still has them. In return, she gave me the key to undreamed- of happiness.

Aunt Jemima had just become a widow, but she allowed no trace of this tragedy to appear: it would have made other people sad.

With her she had brought her only child, a quiet, shy, gentle and very gifted lad of my own age, called Pat. And, as she had been touring the great cities of the world for years, she had superb presents for each of us for each of us, it seemed, except me. Before she had been in the house an hour she had unpacked enough of her baggage to give my father an original Cotman watercolour, my mother a beautiful antique silver hand mirror, my sister a golden bracelet set with emeralds, and my brothers some ingenious toys and sporting gear. Then she turned and looked at me with those superb eyes of hers. I looked back. Althou- gh she had taken no more parcels from her luggage, I could not believe that so wonderful a person would have forgotten me - even though I was a bit of an odd- ity. And, in any case, how could she know about my

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