what her mother had been at her age. The same clear complexion,
large brown eyes, and wavy hair; and the tones of her voice, too, how
they thrilled the heart of the strong man, making him a boy again,
guiding the steps of his baby sister, or bearing her gently in his
arms when the path was steep and stony. It was but a moment,
however, and then the vision faded. His sister was dead, and the
little girl before him was her child--the child of shame he believed,
or rather, his wife had said it so often that he began to believe it.
Glancing at the old-womanish garb in which Mrs. Nichols always
arrayed her, a smile of mingled scorn and pity curled his lips, as he
thought of presenting her to his fastidious wife and elegant
daughters; then withdrawing the hand which she had taken, he said,
"And you are 'Lena--'Lena Nichols they call you, I suppose."

'Lena's old dislike began to return, and placing both hands upon her
hips in imitation of her grandmother she replied, "No 'tain't 'Lena
Nichols, neither. It's 'Lena Rivers. Granny says so, and the town
clark has got it so on his book. How are my cousins? Are they
pretty well? And how is _Ant_?"

Mr. Livingstone winced, at the same time feeling amused at this
little specimen of Yankeeism, in which he saw so much of his mother.
Poor little 'Lena! how should she know any better, living as she
always had with two old people, whose language savored so much of the
days before the flood! Some such thought passed through Mr.
Livingstone's mind, and very civilly he answered her concerning the
health of her cousins and aunt; proceeding next to question her of
his father, who, she said, "had never seen a well day since her
mother died."