ench clock that ought not to have been just there.
Ah, the teacups! Here at last was something to touch a fibre of my
brain, but a pain came with the effort of memory. So my eyes went
back to my grandfather in the window. His face was now become black as
Scipio's, and he wore a red turban and a striped cotton gown that was
too large for him. And he was sewing. This was monstrous!

I hurried over to the tea-cups, such a twinge did that discovery give
me. But they troubled me near as much, and the sea-coal fire held
strange images. The fascination in the window was not to be denied, for
it stood in line with the houses and the trees. Suddenly there rose up
before me a gate. Yes, I knew that gate, and the girlish figure leaning
over it. They were in Prince George Street. Behind them was a mass of
golden-rose bushes, and out of these came forth a black face under a
turban, saying, "Yes, mistis, I'se comin'."

"Mammy--Mammy Lucy!"

The figure in the window stirred, and the sewing fell its ample lap.

"Now Lawd'a mercy!"

I trembled--with a violence unspeakable. Was this but one more of those
thousand voices, harsh and gentle, rough and tender, to which I had
listened in vain this age past? The black face was hovering over me
now, and in an agony of apprehension I reached up and felt its honest
roughness. Then I could have wept for joy.

"Mammy Lucy!"

"Yes, Marse Dick?"

"Where--where is Miss Dolly?"

"Now, Marse Dick, doctah done say you not t' talk, suh."

"Where is Miss Dolly?" I cried, seizing her arm.

"Hush, Marse Dick. Miss Dolly'll come terectly, suh. She's lyin' down,
suh."

The door creaked, and in my eagerness I tried to lift myself. 'Twas
Aunt Lucy's hand that restrained me, and the next face I saw was that of
Dorothy's mother. But why did it appear so old and sorrow-lined? And why
was the hair now of a whiteness with the lace of the cap? She took my
fingers in her own, and asked me anxiously if I felt any pain.

"Where am I, Mrs. Manners?"

"You are in London, Richard."

"In Arlington Street?"

She shook her head sadly. "No, my dear, not in Arlington Street. But you
are not to talk."

"And Dorothy? May I not see Dorothy? Aunt Lucy tells me she is here."

Mrs. Manners gave the old mammy a glance of reproof, a signal that
alarmed me vastly.

"Oh, tell me, Mrs. Manners! You will speak the truth. Tell me if she is
gone away?"

"My dear boy, she is here, and under this very roof. And you sh