with something of a shock, since the moment before I had it settled that
I was in Marlboro' Street. The bare branches swaying in the wind outside
should belong to the trees in Freshwater Lane. But beyond the branches
were houses, the like of which I had no remembrance of in Annapolis. And
then my grandfather should be sitting in that window. Surely, he was
there! He moved! He was coming toward me to say: "Richard, you are
forgiven," and to brush his eyes with his ruffles.

Then there was the bed-canopy, the pleatings of which were gone, and it
was turned white instead of the old blue. And the chimney-place! That
was unaccountably smaller, and glowed with a sea-coal fire. And the
mantel was now but a bit of a shelf, and held many things that seemed
scarce at home on the rough and painted wood,--gold filigree; and China
and Japan, and a French clock that ought not to have been just there.
Ah, the teacups! Here at last was something to touch a fibre of my
brain, but a pain came with the effort of memory. So my eyes went back
to my grandfather in the window. His face was now become black as
Scipio's, and he wore a red turban and a striped cotton gown that was too
large for him. And he was sewing. This was monstrous!

I hurried over to the tea-cups, such a twinge did that discovery give me.
But they troubled me near as much, and the sea-coal fire held strange
images. The fascination in the window was not to be denied, for it stood
in line with the houses and the trees. Suddenly there rose up before me
a gate. Yes, I knew that gate, and the girlish figure leaning over it.
They were in Prince George Street. Behind them was a mass of golden-rose
bushes, and out of these came forth a black face under a turban, saying,
"Yes, mistis, I'se comin'."

"Mammy--Mammy Lucy!"