een at sea. Good
God! is it my grandfather whom you confuse me with?" cried he. "He was
Jack McAllister, and was lost at sea more than seventy years ago, while
my own father was a baby. I am told that I am wonderfully like his
portrait; but he was a younger man than I when he died. This is some
masquerade."

Lady Ferry looked at him intently, but the light in her face was fast
fading out. "Lost at sea,--lost at sea, were you, Jack McAllister,
seventy years ago? I know nothing of years; one of my days is like
another, and they are gray days, they creep away and hide, and
sometimes one comes back to mock me. I have lived a thousand years; do
you know it? Lost at sea--captain of the ship Starlight? Whom did you
say?--Jack McAllister, yes, I knew him well--pardon me; good-evening;"
and my lady rose, and with her head nodding and drooping, with a
sorrowful, hunted look in her eyes, went out again into the shadows.
She had had a flash of youth, the candle had blazed up brilliantly; but
it went out again as suddenly, with flickering and smoke.

"I was startled when I saw her beside me," said Mr. McAllister. "Pray,
who is she? she is like no one I have ever seen. I have been told that
I am like my grandfather in looks and in voice; but it is years since I
have seen any one who knew him well. And did you hear her speak of
dancing? It is like seeing one who has risen from the dead. How old
can she be?"--"I do not know," said cousin Matthew, "one can only guess
at her age."--"Would not she come back? I should like to question
her," asked the other. But cousin Matthew answered that she always
refused to see strangers, and it would be no use to urge her, she would
not answer him.

"Who is she? Is she any kin of yours?" asked Mr. McAllister.

"Oh, no!" said my cousin Agnes: "she has had no relatives since I have
known her, and I think she has no friends now but ourselves. She has
been with us a long time, and once before this house was her home for a
time,--many years since. I suppose no one will ever know the whole
history of her life; I wish often that she had power to tell it. We
are glad to give shelter, and the little care she will accept, to the
poor soul. God only knows where she has strayed and what she has seen.
It is an enormous burden,--so long a life, and such a weight of
memories; but I think it is seldom now that she feels its
heaviness.--Go out to her, Marcia my dear, and see if she seems
trou