concluded I did so only out of compliment to
their homeliness.

And I, meanwhile, decked in all the fanciful elegancies of a London
toilette, sat down to breakfast in the long parlour at Hillsbro' Farm,
with something in my heart that would not let me eat though I was
hungry, and something in my eyes that would not let me see very well,
though the sun came rich and yellow through each of the wide windows,
forming one broad golden path down the middle of the room. I saw but
dimly the dark brown walls and ceiling, the stiff-backed chairs with
their worn covers, the jar full of late roses that stood in either
window, the heap of trailing ivy that overran the huge grate. It was
Mrs. Hollingford's face that did it as she sat, kind, careful,
hospitable, pressing on me sweet home-made cakes, fresh butter, fragrant
tea, delicious cream, and delicate pink eggs. Ah me! it was her face
that did it. There was my great lady, my beneficent friend, my valiant
woman. Her eyes were somewhat sunken, the fire of their energy a trifle
slackened, her brow a little seamed; the strain of fortitude had drawn a
tight cord about her mouth. Whence, then, that new touching beauty that
made one see the stamp of heaven's nobility shining on her face? Had I
quite forgotten her, or was she indeed something new? It was as if grief
had chiselled her features afresh out of the superfluous roundings of
prosperity, wasted them into perfect sweetness, hacked them into purer
refinement. She wore a strait black gown of the coarsest material, only
the fair folds of muslin about her throat giving daintiness to her
attire. Her son breakfasted with us, and I fancied he often looked at me
curiously as if to say, "What concern can she have with us? why did she
come? how long will she remain?" I had talked to him without
embarrassment as we drove along, but now I could hardly speak. Never had
I felt so shy in any company as I did in the presence of my mother's
friend.

After breakfast she led me to my room, bright and airy, but scantily
furnished. It had a window looking out on an orchard threaded by long
alleys, over which hung a glowing roof of fruit-laden branches. And here
I unpacked my trunks and stowed away my elegant dresses in a huge
painted wardrobe smelling of apples. I laid aside with a kind of shame
all the little ornaments I was accustomed to wear, and dressed myself in
the plainest gown I possessed. Descending the quaint old staircase
again, I found