withered in their whiteness, like the leaves of a frost-bitten
lily. They were quivering, too; and now that she was alone, you might
have seen that delicate head begin to vibrate with a slow, perpetual
motion, which had been stopped a moment by the surprise which had fallen
upon her. She sat with her eyes on the curtain, which shut the door from
view. The trembling of her head extended to her whole body, and her
small feet pattered freely on the carpet, like those of a child in the
impotence of sickness.

As she looked the red curtain was lifted, and into the luxurious
splendor of that room came a tall, old woman, who was trembling like
herself, and stood in her presence, apparently afraid to look up.

The old countess arose from her couch, trampling the India shawl under
her feet, and moved with feeble slowness toward her strange visitor.

"Hannah Yates!"

At these words the down prison-look that had fallen upon Hannah was
lifted from her, and those large gray eyes were bent on the little
patrician with a look of intense mournfulness.

"My mistress!"

"Hannah Yates, I never expected to see you again on this earth, and now
you come before me like a ghost."

"Ah, my mistress," answered the old servant, with pathetic humility. "I
am a ghost of the woman who once loved and served you."

"And I? Look upon me, Yates. How have God and time dealt with your
mistress? Has my head been respected more than yours?"

They stood for a moment looking solemnly at each other--that tall,
stately woman, born a peasant, and the delicate, proud, sensitive
peeress, whose blue blood rolled through a series of dead greatness back
to the Conqueror. The contrast was touching. Both had begun to stoop at
the shoulders, both had suffered, and they were as far apart in station
as social power could place them; but a host of memories linked them
together, and the common sympathies of humanity thrilled in the hearts
of both with such pain and pleasure that, unconsciously, the little
withered hand of the countess clasped that of her old servant.

"Come in, Yates, and sit down. You are trembling, poor old soul! The
world must have gone hard with you when the touch of my hand makes you
shiver so. Sit down. We are both old women now, and may rest ourselves
together."

So the woman, whose last home had been a convict's cell, and the lady
whose head had always been sheltered beneath the roofs of a palace, sat
down and looked, with sad timidity,