a heap of eggshell cups and saucers I had not seen before, and an
old-fashioned tea-urn humming a tune all to itself.

"De colonel's out, but he comin' back d'rektly," Chad said eagerly,
all out of breath with excitement. Then followed the information that
Mr. Fitzpatrick was coming to breakfast, and that he was to tell Miss
Nancy the moment we arrived. He then reduced the bulge in his outside
pocket by thrusting his big hands into his white gloves, gave a sidelong
glance at the flower in his buttonhole, and bore my card aloft with
the air of a cupbearer serving a princess.

A soft step on the stair, the rustle of silk, a warning word outside:
"Look out for dat lower step, mistress--dat's it;" and Miss Nancy
entered the room.

No, I am wrong. She became a part of it; as much so as the old andirons
and the easy chairs and the old-fashioned mantelpieces, the snowy
curtains and the trailing vine. More so when she gave me the slightest
dip of a courtesy and laid her dainty, wrinkled little hand in mine,
and said in the sweetest possible voice how glad she was to see me
after so many years, and how grateful she felt for all my kindness to
the dear colonel. Then she sank into a quaint rocking-chair that Chad
had brought down behind her, rested her feet on a low stool that
mysteriously appeared from under the table, and took her knitting from
her reticule.

She had changed somewhat since I last saw her, but only as would an
old bit of precious stuff that grew the more mellow and harmonious in
tone as it grew the older. She had the same silky gray hair--a trifle
whiter, perhaps; the same frank, tender mouth, winning wherever she