and anxious only that her mother should be
protected from pain. She crossed the room instinctively, and sat on
the arm of her mother's chair. Mrs. Hilbery leant her head against her
daughter's body.

"What is nobler," she mused, turning over the photographs, "than to be
a woman to whom every one turns, in sorrow or difficulty? How have the
young women of your generation improved upon that, Katharine? I can see
them now, sweeping over the lawns at Melbury House, in their flounces
and furbelows, so calm and stately and imperial (and the monkey and
the little black dwarf following behind), as if nothing mattered in
the world but to be beautiful and kind. But they did more than we do, I
sometimes think. They WERE, and that's better than doing. They seem to
me like ships, like majestic ships, holding on their way, not shoving or
pushing, not fretted by little things, as we are, but taking their way,
like ships with white sails."

Katharine tried to interrupt this discourse, but the opportunity did not
come, and she could not forbear to turn over the pages of the album in
which the old photographs were stored. The faces of these men and women
shone forth wonderfully after the hubbub of living faces, and seemed,
as her mother had said, to wear a marvelous dignity and calm, as if they
had ruled their kingdoms justly and deserved great love. Some were of
almost incredible beauty, others were ugly enough in a forcible way, but
none were dull or bored or insignificant. The superb stiff folds of the
crinolines suited the women; the cloaks and hats of the gentlemen seemed
full of character. Once more Katharine felt the serene air all round
her, and seemed far off to hear the solemn beating of the sea upon the
shore. But she knew that she must join the present on to this past.

Mrs. Hilbery was rambling on, from story to story.

"That's Janie Mannering," she said, pointing to a superb, white-haired
dame, whose satin robes seemed strung with pearls. "I must have told you
how she found her cook drunk under the kitchen table when the Empress
was coming to dinner, and tucked up her velvet sleeves (she always
dressed like an Empress herself), cooked the whole meal, and appeared in
the drawing-room as if she'd been sleeping on a bank of roses all day.
She could do anything with her hands--they all could--make a cottage or
embroider a petticoat.

"And that's Queenie Colquhoun," she went on, turning the pages, "who
took her coffin out w