pinched-up apartment at the Mackenzie's. Mrs. Dawson must have been
sixty; and yet her face looked very soft and smooth and child-like.
Her hair was quite gray: it would have looked white but for the
snowiness of her cap, and satin ribbon. She was wrapped in a kind of
dressing-gown of French grey merino: the furniture of the room was
deep rose-colour, and white and gold,--the paper which covered the
walls was Indian, beginning low down with a profusion of tropical
leaves and birds and insects, and gradually diminishing in richness
of detail till at the top it ended in the most delicate tendrils and
most filmy insects.

Mr. Dawson had acquired much riches in his profession, and his house
gave one this impression. In the corners of the rooms were great
jars of Eastern china, filled with flower-leaves and spices; and in
the middle of all this was placed the sofa, which poor Margaret
Dawson passed whole days, and months, and years, without the power of
moving by herself. By-and-by Mrs. Dawson's maid brought in tea and
macaroons for us, and a little cup of milk and water and a biscuit
for her. Then the door opened. We had come very early, and in came
Edinburgh professors, Edinburgh beauties, and celebrities, all on
their way to some other gayer and later party, but coming first to
see Mrs. Dawson, and tell her their bon-mots, or their interests, or
their plans. By each learned man, by each lovely girl, she was
treated as a dear friend, who knew something more about their own
individual selves, independent of their reputation and general
society-character, than any one else.

It was very brilliant and very dazzling, and gave enough to think
about and wonder about for many days.