looked to see her cut away a few of the multitude of trees which had
sprung up around her home. But this she had no intention of doing.
"They shut me out," she said, "from the prying eyes of the vulgar, and
I would rather it should be so." So the trees remained, throwing their
long shadows upon the high, narrow windows, and into the large square
rooms, where the morning light and the noonday heat seldom found
entrance, and which seemed like so many cold, silent caverns, with
their old-fashioned massive furniture, their dark, heavy curtains, and
the noiseless footfall of the stately lady, who moved ever with the
same measured tread, speaking always softly and low to the household
servants, who, having been trained in her service, had followed her
across the sea.

From these the neighbors learned that Madam Conway had in London
a married daughter, Mrs. Miller; that old Hagar Warren, the
strange-looking woman who more than anyone else shared her mistress'
confidence, had grown up in the family, receiving a very good
education, and had nursed their young mistress, Miss Margaret, which
of course entitled her to more respect than was usually bestowed upon
menials like her; that Madam Conway was very aristocratic, very proud
of her high English blood; that though she lived alone she attended
strictly to all the formalities of high life, dressing each day with
the utmost precision for her solitary dinner--dining off a service
of solid silver, and presiding with great dignity in her straight,
high-backed chair. She was fond, too, of the ruby wine, and her cellar
was stored with the choicest liquors, some of which she had brought
with her from home, while others, it was said, had belonged to
her grandfather, and for half a century had remained unseen and
unmolested, while the cobwebs of time had woven around them a misty
covering, making them still more valuable to the lady, who knew full