pump against an evening
sky.

"It was very kind of you to come, Maria," said Miss Vesta, "very kind
indeed. I trust you had a comfortable journey, and are not too tired."

"My dear," said Mrs. Pryor, buoyantly, "I am never tired. Watchspring
and wire--Mr. Pryor always said that was what his little Maria was made
of. But it would have made no difference if I had been at the point of
exhaustion, I would have made any effort to come to you. Darracott
blood, my love! Any one who has a drop of Darracott blood in his veins
can call upon me for anything; how much more you, who are my own first
cousin. Poor, dear Phoebe, what a loss! You are not in black, I see.
Ah! I remember her peculiar views. You feel bound to respect them. I
consider that a mistake, Vesta. We must respect, but we are not called
upon to imitate, the eccentricities--"

"I share my sister's views," said Miss Vesta, tranquilly. "Will you have
a cup of tea now, Maria, or would you like to go to your room at once?"

"Neither, my dear, just at this moment," said Mrs. Pryor, vivaciously.
"I must just take a glance around. Dear me! how many years is it since I
have been in this house? Had Phoebe aged as much as you have, Vesta?
Single women, of course, always age faster,--no young life to keep them
girlish. Ah! you must see my two sweet girls. Angels, Vesta! and
Darracotts to their finger-ends. I feel like a child again, positively
like a child. The parlor is exactly as I remember it, only faded. Things
do fade so, don't they? It's a mistake not to keep your furniture fresh
and up to date. I should re-cover those chairs, if I were you; nothing
would be easier. A few yards of something bright and pretty, a few
brass-headed nails--why, I could do it in a couple of hours. We must see
what we can do, Vesta. And it is a pity, it seems to me, to have
everything so bare, tables and all. Beautiful polish, to be sure, but
they look so bleak. A chenille cover, now, here and there, a bright
drape or two, would transform this room; all this old red damask is
terribly antiquated, my dear. It comes of having no young life about
you, as I said. My girls have such taste! You should see our parlor at
home--not an inch but is covered with something bright and aesthetic. Ah!
here are the portraits. Yes, to be sure. Do you know, Vesta, I have
often thought of writing to you and Phoebe--in fact, I was on the
point of it when the sad news came of poor Phoebe's being taken--about
the