"My dear Mabel," replied her aunt, "I have put as much _new_ furniture
as you wished into this room, but I cannot part with the old"--

"Rubbish!" added Mabel, snapping her worsted with the impatience of
the movement.

"It may be rubbish in _your_ eyes, Mabel, but I have told you before
that my dear father desired I should never part with the furniture of
the room he died in."

Mabel _looked_ the truth--"that she was not more inclined toward the
old furniture on that account;" but she did not say so. "Have you got
the key of the old spinnet, aunt? I should like to hear its tone."

"I have never found the key, my dear, though I have often looked for
it; I suppose my father lost it. I have danced to its music before now
to my mother's playing; but I am sure it has not a tone left."

"I wish you would dance now, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel, jumping up
at the idea; "you never told me you could dance; I never, somehow,
fancied you could dance, and I have been obliged to practise my
quadrilles with two high-backed chairs and my embroidery frame. Do,
dear aunt; put by that book, and dance." It would be impossible to
fancy a greater contrast than aunt and niece. Sarah Bond's erect and
perfectly flat figure was surmounted by a long head and face, round
which an abundance of gray hair was folded; for by no other term can
I describe its peculiar dress; her cap plain, but white as snow; and a
black silk gown, that had seen its best days, was pinned and _primmed_
on, so as to sit as close as possible to a figure which would have