There were sounds then of wheels on the gravel. The old dilapidated
cab from Clinton with its ricketty windows and moth-eaten seats that
smelt of straw and beer was standing at the door, the horse puffing
great breaths of steam into the frozen air. Her aunt had arrived.
Maggie, standing behind the window, looked out. The carriage door
opened, and a figure, that seemed unusually tall, appeared to
straighten itself out and rose to its full height on the gravel path
as though it had been sitting in the cab pressed together, its head
upon its knees.

Then in the hall that was dark even on the brightest day, Aunt Anne
revealed herself as a lady, tall indeed, but not too tall, of a fine
carriage, in a black rather shabby dress and a black bonnet. Her
face was grave and sharply pointed, with dark eyes--sad rather, and
of the pale remote colour that the Virgin in the St. Dreot's east
end window wears. Standing there in the dusky hall, quietly, quite
apart from the little bustle that surrounded her, she seemed to
Maggie even in that first moment like some one wrapt, caught away
into her own visions.

"I paid the cabman five shillings," she said very softly. "I hope
that was right. And you are Maggie, are you?"

She bent down and kissed her. Her lips were warm and comforting.
Maggie, who had, when she was shy, something of the off-hand manner
of a boy, said:

"Yes. That's all right. We generally give him four and six."

They went into the dining-room where was Mr. Brassy. He came forward