essing-gown of faded damask, and
wearing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length. It quite
overshadowed his forehead, except when he thrust it back, and stared
vaguely about the room. After a very brief inspection of his face, it
was easy to conceive that his footstep must necessarily be such an one
as that which, slowly and with as indefinite an aim as a child's first
journey across a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet there
were no tokens that his physical strength might not have sufficed for a
free and determined gait. It was the spirit of the man that could not
walk. The expression of his countenance--while, notwithstanding it had
the light of reason in it--seemed to waver, and glimmer, and nearly to
die away, and feebly to recover itself again. It was like a flame
which we see twinkling among half-extinguished embers; we gaze at it
more intently than if it were a positive blaze, gushing vividly
upward,--more intently, but with a certain impatience, as if it ought
either to kindle itself into satisfactory splendor, or be at once
extinguished.

For an instant after entering the room, the guest stood still,
retaining Hepzibah's hand instinctively, as a child does that of the
grown person who guides it. He saw Phoebe, however, and caught an
illumination from her youthful and pleasant aspect, which, indeed,
threw a cheerfulness about the parlor, like the circle of reflected
brilliancy around the glass vase of flowers that was standing in the
sunshine. He made a salutation, or, to speak nearer the truth, an
ill-defined, abortive attempt at curtsy. Imperfect as it was, however,
it conveyed an idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of indescribable grace,
such as no practised art of external manners could have attained. It
was too slight to seize upon at the instant; yet, as recollected
afterwards, seemed to transfigure the whole man.

"Dear Clifford," said Hepzibah, in the tone with which one soothes a
wayward infant, "this is our cousin Phoebe,--little Phoebe
Pyncheon,--Arthur's only child, you know. She has come from the
country to stay with us awhile; for our old house has grown to be very
lonely now."

"Phoebe--Phoebe Pyncheon?--Phoebe?" repeated the guest, with a strange,
sluggish, ill-defined utterance. "Arthur's child! Ah, I forget! No
matter. She is very welcome!"

"Come, dear Clifford, take this chair," said Hepzibah, leading him to
his place. "Pray, Phoebe, lower the curtain a ve