istory, as to
their looks, as to their future life under his roof, that Stephen did not
indulge in, as he stood leaning with his folded arms on the gate, in the
gray November twilight, where we first found him. His thoughts, as was
natural, centred most around the younger woman.

"Poor thing! That was a mighty hard fate. Only nineteen years old
now,--six years younger than I am; and how much more she must know of life
than I do. I suppose she can't be a lady, exactly,--being a sea captain's
wife. I wonder if she's pretty? I think Harley might have told me more
about her. He might know I'd be very curious.

"I wonder if mother'll take to them? If she does, it will be a great
comfort to her. She 's so alone." And Stephen's face clouded, as he
reflected how very seldom the monotony of the invalid's life was broken
now by a friendly visit from a neighbor.

"If they should turn out really social, neighborly people that we liked,
we might move away the old side-board from before the hall door, and go in
and out that way, as the Jacobses used to. It would be unlucky though, I
reckon, to use that door. I guess I'll plaster it up some day." Like all
people of deep sentiment, Stephen had in his nature a vein of something
which bordered on superstition.

The twilight deepened into darkness, and a cold mist began to fall in
slow, drizzling drops. Still Stephen stood, absorbed in his reverie, and
unmindful of the chill.

The hall door opened, and an old woman peered out. She held a lamp in one
hand; the blast of cold air made the flame flicker and flare, and, as she
put up one hand to shade it, the light was thrown sharply across her
features, making them stand out like the distorted features of a hideous
mask.

"Steve! Steve!" she called, in a shrill voice. "Supper's been waitin' more
'n half an hour. Lor's sake, what's the boy thinkin' on now, I wonder?"
she muttered in an impatient lower tone, as Stephen turned his head
slowly.

"Yes, yes, Marty. Tell my mother I will be there in a moment," replied
Stephen, as he walked slowly toward the house; even then noting, with the
keen and relentless glance of a beauty-worshipper, how grotesquely ugly
the old woman's wrinkled face became, lighted up by the intense
cross-light. Old Marty's face had never looked other than lovingly into
Stephen's since he first lay in her arms, twenty-five years ago, when she
came, a smooth-cheeked, rosy country-woman of twenty-five, to nurse his
mo