A warm welcome was given to her by the Missionary ladies living there:—Miss Emily Wauton, who still labours on in the same spot, though nearly twenty years have passed since that day; Mrs. Elmslie, widow of Dr. Elmslie, the Pioneer of Missionary work in Cashmere; Miss Florence Swainson; and Miss Ada Smith;—not to speak of the C.M.S. Missionary gentleman living close by.
After her wont, Miss Tucker was very eager, very bright, very anxious to become immediately one of the little circle. That first evening, as they sat round the table, she said: ‘I don’t want to be “Miss Tucker” here. Can’t you all call me “Charlotte Maria”?’ The ladies naturally demurred. ‘We could not possibly,’ they said. Miss Tucker’s face fell a little; then came a happy thought, and she brightened up. ‘Call me “Auntie,”’ she said. ‘So many call me “Auntie.” All of you must do so.’
‘But we cannot directly. We don’t know you yet,’ objected the others again.
She was very much delighted when Mr. Rowland Bateman, one of the Missionaries, began the same evening, without hesitation, to speak to her as ‘Auntie.’
Soon after, news came of the death of her brother, Mr. Henry Carre Tucker. It was needful to arrange for her mourning; and pending the arrival of other things, one of the younger ladies offered to alter for her an old black silk dress which she had. Going to her room, the young lady knocked and said, ‘Miss Tucker, may I have the dress now?’ No answer. Another attempt;—and ‘No Miss Tucker here!’ was the result. ‘Unless you call me “Auntie,” you will not have it.’ ‘But how can I so soon? I don’t know you yet,’ was once more the unavailing plea. Miss Tucker had her way, however; and thenceforward she became ‘Auntie’ to an ever-increasing circle of nephews and nieces in India.
Some extracts from her own letters, written to Mrs. Hamilton in the December of 1875, will give, far better than words of mine can do, the impressions received in her new position.
‘December 2, 1875.
‘It is early morning, before 6 A.M., my first morning in my new home. A cock has been crowing, otherwise everything is profoundly still. I hear a cart in the distance. You will like to hear something of my surroundings.
‘Mrs. Elmslie came to meet me at the station; also Mr. Clark and Mr. Baring. It was slightly bewildering, for, says Mr. Clark, “the Bishop wants to see you; he and Miss Milman are to go off by this train.” Now the thought most in my mind was, “I won’t let poor dear Miss F.[30] think that I desert her for new acquaintances.” She also was going on by the train; but there was a pause at Amritsar station for perhaps a quarter of an hour. So I had to be agreeable to the Bishop, Miss F., and all,—and keep Mrs. Elmslie waiting besides.