her spirit quenched by its most subduing contact with the elemental tragedy that was constant to her thought. When Mrs. Anthon, of London, and Samuel Bowles, of the "Springfield Republican," were there they played wild games of battledore and shuttlecock in the long winter evenings; Emily convulsing their onlookers by her superfluous antics added to their game. She improvised brilliantly upon the piano all sorts of dramatic performances of her own, one she called the Devil being particularly applauded.
It was on one of these winter nights of revel that they forgot the hour and suddenly, unwarned by the approaching beams of his lantern across the snow, became aware of her father's presence in their midst, to enquire the meaning of such prolonged hours. Emily is said to have drooped and disappeared before him like the dew, without a sound, but with a wicked glance or gesture to assert her unreconcilement to the proceedings.
Her sister Sue recognized her genius from the first, and hoarded every scrap Emily sent her from the time they were both girls of sixteen. Their love never faltered or waned. Emily pictures their first meeting and its changelessness:
As much now as when love first began—on the step at the front door, under the evergreens.
One of her very last pencilled lines was this:
With the exception of Shakespeare you have told me more knowledge than any one living. To say that sincerely is strange praise.
Sometimes Emily addressed her as "You from whom I never run away"; and again she exclaims:
