--back again as she was that June afternoon we went
together to my last birthday party, her girlish arms bare to the elbow,
and the lace about her slender throat. Yes, Bess hath the very tilt of
her chin, the regal grace of that slim figure, and the deep blue eyes.

"Grandfather, dear, you are crushing the gown!"

And so the fire is not yet gone out of this old frame.

Ah, yes, there they are again, those unpaved streets of old Annapolis
arched with great trees on either side. And here is Dolly, holding her
skirt in one hand and her fan in the other, and I in a brave blue coat,
and pumps with gold buttons, and a cocked hat of the newest fashion.
I had met her leaning over the gate in Prince George Street. And, what
was strange for her, so deep in thought that she jumped when I spoke her
name.

"Dorothy, I have come for you to walk to the party, as we used when we
were children."

"As we used when we were children!" cried she. And flinging wide the
gate, stretched out her hand for me to take. "And you are eighteen years
to-day! It seems but last year when we skipped hand in hand to Marlboro'
Street with Mammy Lucy behind us. Are you coming, mammy?" she called.

"Yes, mistis, I'se comin'," said a voice from behind the golden-rose
bushes, and out stepped Aunt Lucy in a new turban, making a curtsey to
me. "La, Marse Richard!" said she, "to think you'se growed to be a
fine gemman! 'Taint but t'other day you was kissin' Miss Dolly on de
plantation."

"It seems longer than that to me, Aunt Lucy," I answered, laughing at
Dolly's blushes.

"You have too good a memory, mammy," said my lady, withdrawing her
fingers from mine.

"Bress you, honey! De ole woman doan't forgit some things."

And she fell back to a respectful six paces.

"Those were happy times," said Dorothy. Then the little sigh became a
laugh. "I mean to enjoy myself to-day, Richard. But I fear I shall not
see as much of you as I used. You are old enough to play the host, now."

"You shall see as much as you will."

"Where have you been of late, sir? In Gloucester Street?"

"'Tis your own fault, Dolly. You are changeable as the sky,--to-day
sunny, and to-morrow cold. I am sure of my welcome in Gloucester
Street."

She tripped a step as we turned the corner, and came closer to my side.

"You must learn to take me as you find me, dear Richard. To-day I am in
a holiday humour."

Some odd note in her tone troubled me, and I glanced at her quickly. Sh