They live West.

I haven't seen any of them for years.

I know there are several children--and I suppose I've been told their names.

I know there's a boy--the eldest, I think--who is quite a singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't seem to remember a 'Mary Jane.'" "Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself," suggested Billy, dropping her chin into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling herself to listen.
"Very well," sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and began to read.
"DEAR AUNT HANNAH:--This is to tell you that I'm coming to Boston to study singing in the school for Grand Opera, and I'm planning to look you up.

Do you object?
I said to a friend the other day that I'd half a mind to write to Aunt Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend retorted: 'Why don't you, Mary Jane ?' But that, of course, I should not think of doing.
"But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah, and I hope you'll let me see you once in a while, anyway.