realizing it, that Miss Amelia had once been young, that she had once
even been beautiful. There was a legend, fading now into tradition, that
her lover had been killed in a duel, fought for her while she was still
a girl, and that she had worn only white or black since that day--she
who was now well over eighty. She had known love; a man had died for
her; it was said that she had been a famous coquette in the 'thirties;
and now she stood there, grotesque and sexless, with her eyes empty of
dreams and of memories, and her face as gray and sinister as the face of
her shadow.

"I hope she is better, poor child," she said, for, like the rest of
Richmond, she believed Jane to be all saint and Charley all sinner. "If
I can be of any help, be sure to let me know."

"Yes, I'll let you know, thank you. I hope we didn't disturb Miss
Jemima."

The younger Miss Peterborough--called "the happy one" by Gabriella and
Mrs. Carr because she was always cheerful, though, as far as any one
could tell, she had nothing and had never had anything to be cheerful
about--was named Jemima. A chronic invalid, from some obscure trouble
which had not left her for twenty years, she was seldom free from pain,
and yet Gabriella had never seen her (except at funerals, for which she
entertained a perfectly healthy fondness as diversions free to the poor)
without a smile on her face.

"Sister Jemima doesn't wake easily. She is a sound sleeper and she's
getting a little hard of hearing"; and lifting the candlestick to light
her way, Miss Amelia turned back up the stairs, while the flame flitted
like a golden moth into the dimness.