met but once, continued until just before death, another evidence of the inclusive quality of her human sympathy.
Emily's childhood intimacy with Helen Hunt Jackson, later the author of "Mercy Philbrick's Choice," "Ramona," etc., was one of her dearest pleasures. "H. H.," as her books were signed, would be driven into town with a pair of smashing grey horses, which were dramatically walked up and down before the house, while the two charmers visited together behind the closed blinds. From girlhood Helen looked up to Emily as something supernatural, and Emily returned her adoration, calling Helen a witch, but never succumbing to her repeated requests for material for publication. Helen Hunt was herself a siren who enchanted all men's hearts—a hopeless coquette from her youth up, worldly where Emily was secluded, expressive while Emily was reserved, a charmer of charmers, who never let go her hold on the hand of the little girl she played with under the syringas, and never lost a chance to come back and warm herself at the fire of that deathless altar.
What they talked of none can ever know, for the door was shut upon their hours together, and not one member of the family ever dared invade. Their partings overheard were like those of desperate final sundered souls; but both were dramatic of temperament and to Emily the darkness was denser always after the radiant passage of one of her chosen. Helen always preferred Emily in genius and power, and considered herself but a small spark beside her. Her generosity of appreciation was boundless and well grounded. Her letters from Emily, as well as hers to Emily, were believed to have been burned at last in accordance with their own agreement.
