one much later. I answer that these
great masters have accomplished what poor, human art can do. But Nature
hath given us a better picture. "Come hither, Bess! Yes, truly, you
have Dolly's hair, with the very gloss upon it. But fashions have
changed, my child, and that is not as Dolly wore it." Whereupon Bess
goes to the portrait, and presently comes back to give me a start.
And then we go hand in hand up the stairs of Calvert House even to the
garret, where an old cedar chest is laid away under the eaves. Bess,
the minx, well knows it, and takes out a prim little gown with the white
fading yellow, and white silk mits without fingers, and white stockings
with clocks, and a gauze cap, with wings and streamers, that sits saucily
on the black locks; and the lawn-embroidered apron; and such dainty,
high-heeled slippers with the pearls still a-glisten upon the buckles.
Away she flies to put them on. And then my heart gives a leap to see my
Dorothy back again,--back again as she was that June afternoon we went
together to my last birthday party, her girlish arms bare to the elbow,
and the lace about her slender throat. Yes, Bess hath the very tilt of
her chin, the regal grace of that slim figure, and the deep blue eyes.

"Grandfather, dear, you are crushing the gown!"

And so the fire is not yet gone out of this old frame.

Ah, yes, there they are again, those unpaved streets of old Annapolis
arched with great trees on either side. And here is Dolly, holding her
skirt in one hand and her fan in the other, and I in a brave blue coat,
and pumps with gold buttons, and a cocked hat of the newest fashion.
I had met her leaning over the gate in Prince George Street. And, what
was strange for her, so deep in thought that she jumped when I spoke her
name.

"Dorothy, I have come for you to walk to the party, as we used when we
were children."

"As we used when we were children!" cried she. And flinging wide the
gate, stretched out her hand for me to take. "And you are eighteen years
to-day! It seems but last year when we skipped hand in hand to Marlboro'
Street with Mammy Lucy behind us. Are you coming, mammy?" she called.

"Yes, mistis, I'se comin'," said a voice from behind the golden-rose
bushes, and out stepped Aunt Lucy in a new turban, making a curtsey to
me. "La, Marse Richard!" said she, "to think you'se growed to be a
fine gemman! 'Taint but t'other day you was kissin' Miss Dolly on de
plantation."

"It seems longer t