went through the house to the front entry, thinking I would go out
the front door--the side one was dripping as if it were under a
waterfall. Just as I reached it I heard a die-away voice from the
front chamber say, "My good woman."

I did not dream that I was addressed, never having been called by
that name, though always having hoped that I was a good woman.

So I kept right on. Then I heard a despairing sigh, and the voice
said, "You speak to her, Harriet."

Then I heard another voice, very sweet and a little timid, "Will you
please step upstairs? Mamma wishes to speak to you."

I began to wonder if they were talking to me. I looked up, and
there discovered a pretty, innocent, rosy little face, peering over
the balustrade at the head of the stairs. "Will you please step
upstairs?" said she again, in the same sweet tones. "Mamma wishes
to speak to you."

I have a little weakness of the heart, and do not like to climb
stairs more than I am positively obliged to; it always puts me so out
of breath. I sleep downstairs on that account. I looked at Caroline's
front stairs, which are rather steep, with some hesitation. I felt
shaken, too, on account of the alarm of fire. Then I heard the first
voice again with a sort of languishing authority: "My good woman,
will you be so kind as to step upstairs immediately?"

I went upstairs. The girl who had spoken to me--I found afterward
that she was the elder of the daughters--motioned me to go into the
north chamber. I found them all there. The mother, Mrs. H. Boardman
Jameson, as I afterward knew her name to be, was lying on the bed,
her head propped high with pillows; the younger daughter was fanning
her, and she was panting softly as if she were almost exhausted. The
grandmother sat beside the north window, with a paper-covered book on
her knees. She was eating something from a little white box on the
window-sill. The boy was at another window, also with a book in which
he did not seem to be interested. He looked up at me, as I entered,
with a most peculiar expression of mingled innocence and shyness
which was almost terror. I could not see why the boy should possibly
be afraid of me, but I learned afterward that it was either his
natural attitude or natural expression. He was either afraid of every
mortal thing or else appeared to be. The singular elevated arch of
his eyebrows over his wide-open blue eyes, and his mouth, which was
always parted a little, no doubt served