member it," replies Ellen.

"That friendless old man, my dear, whom at this moment perhaps scarcely
a single human being in the world loves, was the most brilliant beau
and squire of dames that has ever lived in this country; handsome,
accomplished, and graceful, he has stepped many a stately dance with the
queenly Mary Bunley, mother of Lawrence Newt. But that was half a century
ago."

"Mamma," asks Ellen, full of interest in her mother's words, "but why
does nobody speak to him? Why is he so alone? Had he not better have died
half a century ago?"

"My dear, you have seen Mrs. Beriah Dagon, an aunt of Mr. Lawrence
Newt's? She was Cecilia Bunley, sister of Mary. When she was younger
she used to go to the theatre with a little green snake coiled around
her arm like a bracelet. It was the most lovely green--the softest color
you ever saw; it had the brightest eyes, the most sinuous grace; it had
a sort of fascination, but it filled you with fear; fortunately, it was
harmless. But, Ellen, if it could have stung, how dreadful it would have
been! Aaron Burr was graceful, and, accomplished, and brilliant; he
coiled about many a woman, fascinating her with his bright eyes and his
sinuous manner; but if he had stung, dear?"

Ellen shakes her head as her mother speaks, and Gabriel involuntarily
thinks of Abel Newt.

When Mrs. Bennet goes out of the room to attend to the tea, Gabriel says
that for his part he doesn't believe in the least that the ship was named
for old Mrs. Newt; people are not romantic about their mothers; and Miss
Ellen agrees with him.

The room in which they sit is small, and very plain. There are only a
sofa, and table, and some chairs, with shelves of books, and a coarse
carpet. Upon the wall hangs a portrait representing a young and beautiful
woman, not unlike Mrs. Bennet; but the beauty of the face is flashing and
passionate, not thoughtful and mild like that of Gabriel's mother. But
although every thing is very plain, it is perfectly cheerful. There is
nothing forlorn in the aspect of the room. Roses in a glass upon the
table, and the voice and manner of the mother and daughter, tell every
thing.

Presently they go in to tea, and Mr. Bennet joins them. His face is pale,
and of gentle expression, and he stoops a little in his walk. He wears
slippers and an old coat, and has the air of a clergyman who has made up
his mind to be disappointed. But he is not a clergyman, although his
white cravat, so