Mary Greenleaf," said old Miss Pinsett.

"I know I have," she answered, "and I'm not Mary Greenleaf, though I
sent that name up to you--I'm Mary Leonard."

"I wondered if neither of you were married."

"I'm a widow, Miss Pinsett," said Mary Leonard, soberly. "My husband
only lived three years."

"Poor girl, poor girl!" said Miss Pinsett, patting her hand, and then
she looked at the other.

"I'm Lucy Eastman still," she said; "just the same Lucy Eastman."

"And a very good thing to be, too," said Miss Pinsett, nodding her
delicate old head kindly. "But," and she scanned her face, "but, now
that I look at you, not quite the same Lucy Eastman--not quite the
same."

"Older and plainer," she sighed.

"Of all the nonsense!" exclaimed old Miss Pinsett. "You're not quite so
shy, that's all, my dear."

"I'm shy now," asserted Lucy.

"Very likely, but not quite so shy as you were, for all that. Don't tell
me! I've a quick eye for changes, and so I can see changes in you two
when it may be another wouldn't."

Before the excitement of her welcome had been subdued into mere
gladness, there was a discreet tap at the door, and the respectable
maid came in with a tray of sherry-glasses and cake. Mary Leonard and
Lucy Eastman looked at each other brimming over with smiles. It was the
same kind of cake, and might have been cut off the same loaf.

"Never any cake like yours," said Mary Leonard.

"I remember you like my cake," said old Miss Pinsett, smiling; "take a
bigger piece, child."

They wanted to know many things about the people and the town, all of
which Miss Pinsett could tell them.

The shadows grew longer, the room dimmer, and Miss Pinsett had the maid
throw open the blinds to let in the western sunlight. A shaft of
illumination fell across one of the Japanese vases, and a dragon
blinked, and the smooth round head of a mandarin gleamed. There was an
old-fashioned trumpet-creeper outside the window.

"But we must go," exclaimed Mary Leonard at last, rising and taking up
her bonnet. "Oh, no, thank you, we must not stay. Miss Pinsett; we are
going to-morrow, and we are tired with all the pleasure of to-day, and
we have so much--so much to talk over. We shall talk all night, as we
used to, I am afraid."

"But before you go, girls," said Miss Pinsett, laying a fragile, white
slender hand on each, "you must sing for me some of the songs you used
to sing--you know some very pretty duets."

Mary Leonard and Luc