footman behind, and a grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front,
--the whole giving an idea of solemn state and dignity. There was
something awful, in the heavy rumbling of the wheels. The coach
rolled down the street, till, coming to the gateway of the deserted
mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the ground.

"Whose grand coach is this?" asked a very inquisitive body.

The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps of the old house,
gave three raps with the iron hammer, and returned to open the coach-
door. An old man possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that day
examined the shield of arms on the panel.

"Azure, a lion's head erased, between three flower-deluces," said he;
then whispered the name of the family to whom these bearings belonged.
The last inheritor of its honors was recently dead, after a long
residence amid the splendor of the British court, where his birth and
wealth had given him no mean station. "He left no child," continued
the herald, "and these arms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the
coach appertains to his widow."

Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made, had not the
speaker suddenly been struck dumb, by the stern eye of an ancient
lady, who thrust forth her head from the coach, preparing to descend.
As she emerged, the people saw that her dress was magnificent, and her
figure dignified, in spite of age and infirmity,--a stately ruin, but
with a look, at once, of pride and wretchedness. Her strong and rigid
features had an awe about them, unlike that of the white Old Maid, but
as of something evil. She passed up the steps, leaning on a gold-
headed cane; the door swung open, as she ascended,--and the light of a