with anything," said Harrington,
drawing nearer to the door, through which he saw glimpses of
orange-colored drapery disappearing into an inner room.

"You must not say that, for I had expected some surprise at the view
from this particular point," she answered, evidently wishing to detain
him on the door step.

"Yes, it is very fine; but you will find the wind rather keen. Allow
me."

Harrington pushed the door wide open, and Agnes was obliged to pass into
the apartment beyond. She seemed relieved to find it empty, and when her
guest looked toward the opposite door, observed; "I am in disgrace, you
see, mammy has shut herself up."

"And yet I have some desire to see her, if it were only to excuse the
fright we gave her last night, by allowing you to enter without
knocking."

"Oh, she did not mind it in the least. It was nothing, I assure you."

"Still I would like to speak with her."

Agnes grew pale about the lips, a sign of emotion that did not escape
her guest; but it passed off in an instant, and she was slowly
approaching the inner door, when it opened, and the object of their
conversation presented herself.

CHAPTER XVII.

THAT WOMAN.

Harrington was, indeed, surprised when he saw this woman. She was
evidently ten years older than she had appeared at a distance, and,
though that seemed an impossibility, darker too. The Madras kerchief
certainly had been refolded since her return to the house, for it came
low upon the forehead, and the hair visible beneath it was thickly
scattered with white. She stooped somewhat, and her gait was slow,
almost shuffling. Not a vestige of the imperious air that had rendered
her so picturesque a few minutes before, remained. She appeared before
him simply as a common-place light mulatto of rather more than middle
age, who might have been an upper house servant in her day, but nothing
more. On closer inspection, even the orange-tinted shawl was soiled and
held around her person in a slovenly manner, as rich cast-off garments
usually are by the servants who inherit them.

At first, Harrington would not believe that this was the same woman
whose appearance had made so deep an impression on him, for a heavy sort
of sluggishness, both of thought and feeling, lay on her features, while
those that had aroused his attention so keenly, were active and full of
intelligence. The woman did not sit down, but stood by the open door,
looking stupidly at Agnes Barker, as if