elling myself stories; and my
mind was adrift in these so much, that my real absent-mindedness was
mistaken for childish unconcern. Yet I was a thoroughly simple,
unaffected child. My dreams and thoughtfulness gave me a certain tact
and perception unusual in a child; but my pleasures were as deep in
simple things as heart could wish.

It happened that our cousin Matthew was to come to the city on
business the week that the ship was to sail, and that I could stay
with my father and mother to the very last day, and then go home with
him. This was much pleasanter than leaving sooner under the care of an
utter stranger, as was at first planned. My cousin Agnes wrote a kind
letter about my coming which seemed to give her much pleasure. She
remembered me very well, and sent me a message which made me feel of
consequence; and I was delighted with the plan of making her so long a
visit.

One evening I was reading a story-book, and I heard my father say in
an undertone, "How long has madam been at the ferry this last time?
Eight or ten years, has she not? I suppose she is there yet?"--"Oh,
yes!" said my mother, "or Agnes would have told us. She spoke of her
in the last letter you had, while we were in Sweden."

"I should think she would be glad to have a home at last, after her
years of wandering about. Not that I should be surprised now to hear
that she had disappeared again. When I was staying there while I was
young, we thought she had drowned herself, and even had the men search
for her along the shore of the river; but after a time cousin Matthew
heard of her alive and well in Salem; and I believe she appeared again
this last time as suddenly as she went away."

"I suppose she will never die," said my mother gravely. "She must be
terribly old," said my father. "When I saw her last, she had scarcely
changed at all from the way she looked when I was a boy. She is even
more quiet and gentle than she used to be. There is no danger that the
child will have any fear of her; do you think so?"--"Oh, no! but I
think I will tell her that madam is a very old woman, and that I hope
she will be very kind, and try not to annoy her; and that she must not
be frightened at her strange notions. I doubt if she knows what
craziness is."--"She would be wise if she could define it," said my
father with a smile. "Perhaps we had better say nothing about the old
lady. It is probable that she stays altogether in her own room, and
that the child