One pleasant afternoon Adelaide and I started on a walk. We must go through the crooked length of Norfolk Street, till we reached the outskirts of Belem, and its low fields not yet green; that was the fashionable promenade, she said. After the two o’clock dinner, Belem walked. All her acquaintances seemed to be in the street, so many bows were given and returned with ceremony. Nothing familiar was attempted, nothing beyond the courtliness of an artificial smile.

Returning, we met Desmond with a lady, and a series of bows took place. Desmond held his hat in his hand till we had passed; his expression varied so much from what it was when I saw him last, at the breakfast table, he being in a desperate humor then, that it served me for mental comment for some minutes.

“That is Miss Brewster,” said Adelaide. “She is an heiress, and fancies Desmond’s attentions: she will not marry him, though.”

“Is every woman in Belem an heiress?”

“Those we talk about are, and every man is a fortune-hunter. Money marries money; those who have none do not marry. Those who wait hope. But the great fortunes of Belem are divided; the race of millionaires is decaying.”

“Is that Ann yonder?”

“I think so, from that bent bonnet.”

It proved to be Ann, who went by us with the universal bow and grimace, sacrificing to the public spirit with her fine manners. She turned soon, however, and overtook us, proposing to make a detour to Drummond Street, where an intimate family friend, “Old Hepburn,” lived, so that the prospect of our going to tea with her might be made probable by her catching a passing glimpse of us; at this time she must be at the window with her Voltaire, or her Rousseau. The proposition was accepted, and we soon came near the house, which stood behind a row of large trees, and looked very dismal, with three-fourths of its windows barred with board shutters.

“Walk slow,” Ann entreated. “I see her blinking at us. She has not shed her satin pelisse yet.”

Before we got beyond it a dirty little girl came out of the gate, in a pair of huge shoes and a canvas apron, which covered her, to call us back. Mrs. Hepburn had seen us, and wished us to come in, wanting to know who Miss Adelaide had with her, and to talk with her. She ran back, reappearing again at the door, out of breath, and minus a shoe. As we entered a small parlor, an old lady in a black dress, with a deep cape, held out her withered hand, without rising from her straight-backed arm-chair, smiling at us, but shaking her head furiously at the small girl, who lingered in the door.

“Mari, Mari,” she called, but no Mari came, and the small girl took our shawls, for Mrs. Hepburn said we must stay, now that she had inveigled us inside her doors. Ann mimicked her at her back, but to her face behaved servilely. The name of Morgeson belonged to the early historical time of New England, Mrs. Hepburn informed me. I never knew it; but bowed, as if not ignorant. Old Mari must be consulted respecting the sweetmeats, and she went after her.

“What an old mouser it is!” said Ann. “What unexpected ways she has! She scours Belem in her velvet shoes, to find out everybody’s history. Don’t you smell buttered toast?”

“Your father is getting the best of the gout,” said Mrs. Hepburn, returning. “How is Desmond? He may be the wickedest of you all, but I like him the best. I shall not throw away praise of him on you, Adelaide.” And she looked at me.

“He bows well,” I said.

“He resembles his mother, who was a great beauty. Mr. Somers was handsome, too. I was at a ball at Governor Flam’s thirty years ago. Your mother was barely fifteen, then, Adelaide; she was just married, and opened the ball.”

She examined me all the while, with a pair of small, round eyes, from which the color had faded, but which were capable of reading me.

Tea was served by candlelight, on a small table. Mrs. Hepburn kept her eyes on everything, talking volubly, and pulled the small, girl’s ears, or pushed her by the shoulder, with faith that we were not observing her. The toast was well buttered, the sweetmeats were delicious, and the cake was heavenly, as Ann said. Mrs. Hepburn ate little, but told us a great deal about marriages in prospect and incomes which waxed or waned in consequence. When tea was over, she said to the small girl who removed the tea things, “On your life taste not of the cake or the sweetmeats; and bring me two sticks of wood, you huzzy.” She arranged the sticks on a decaying fire, inside a high brass fender, pulled up a stand near the hearth, lighted two candles, and placed on it a pack of cards.

“Some one may come, so that we can play.”

Meantime she dozed upright, walking, talking, and dozing again, like a crafty old parrot.

“She has a great deal of money saved,” Ann whispered behind a book. “She is over seventy. Oh, she is opening her puss eyes!”

Adelaide mused, after her fashion, on the slippery hair-cloth sofa, looking at the dim fire, and I surveyed the room. Its aspect attracted me, though it was precise and stiff. An ugly Turkey carpet covered the floor; a sideboard was against the wall, with a pair of silver pitchers on it, and two tall vases, filled with artificial flowers, under glass shades. Old portraits hung over it. Upon one I fixed my attention.

“That is the portrait of Count Rumford,” Mrs. Hepburn said.

“Can’t we see the letters?” begged Ann. “And wont you show us your trinkets? It is three or four years since we looked them over.”

“Yes,” she answered, good-humoredly; “ring the bell.”

An old woman answered it, to whom Mrs. Hepburn said, in a friendly voice, “The box in my desk.” Adelaide and Ann said, “How do you do, Mari?” When she brought the box, Mrs. Hepburn unlocked it, and produced some yellow letters, which we looked over, picking out here and there bits of Parisian gossip, many, many years old. They were directed to Cavendish Hepburn, by his friend, the original of the portrait. But the letters were soon laid aside, and we examined the contents of the box. Old brooches, miniatures painted on ivory, silhouettes, hair rings, necklaces, ear-rings, chains, and finger-rings.

“Did you wear this?” asked Ann with a longing voice, slipping an immense sapphire ring on her forefinger.

“In Mr. Hepburn’s day,” she answered, taking up a small case, which she unfastened and gave me. It contained a peculiar pair of ear-rings, and a brooch of aqua-marina stones, in a setting perforated like a net.

“They suit you. Will you accept such an old-fashioned ornament? Put the rings in; here Ann, fasten them.”

Ann glared at her in astonishment, and then at me, for the reason which had prompted so unexpected a gift.

“Is it possible that I am to have them? Why do you give them to me? They are beautiful,” I replied.

“They came from Europe long ago,” she said. “And they happen to suit you.”

’Sabrina fair,
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.’”

“Those lines make me forgive Paradise Lost,” said Adelaide.

“They are very long, these ear-rings,” Ann remarked.

I put the brooch in the knot of ribbon I wore; Mrs. Hepburn joggled the white satin bows of her cap in approbation.

The knocker resounded. “There is our partner,” she cried.

“It must be late, ma’am,” said Adelaide; “and I suspect it is some one for us. You know we never venture on impromptu visits, except to you, and our people know where to send.”

“Late or not, you shall stay for a game,” she said, as Ben came in, hat in hand, declaring he had been scouting for us since dark. Mrs. Hepburn snuffed the candles, and rang the bell. The small girl, with a perturbed air, like one hurried out of a nap, brought in a waiter, which she placed on the sideboard.

“Get to bed,” Mrs. Hepburn loudly whispered, looking over the waiter, and taking from it a silver porringer, she put it inside the fender, and then shuffled the cards.

“Now, Ann, you may sit beside me and learn.”

“If it is whist, mum, I know it. I played every afternoon at Hampton last summer, and we spoiled a nice polished table, we scratched it so with our nails, picking up the cards.”

“Young people do too much, nowadays.”

I was in the shadow of the sideboard; Ben stood against it.

“When have you played whist, Cassandra?” he asked in a low voice. “Do you remember?”

“Is my name Cassandra?”

“Have you forgotten that, too?”

“I remember the rain.”

“It is not October, yet.”

“And the yellow leaves do not stick to the panes. Would you like to see Helen?”

“Come, play with me, Ben,” called Mrs. Hepburn.

“Ann, try your skill,” I entreated, “and let me off.”

“She can try,” Mrs. Hepburn said sharply. “Don’t you like games? I should have said you were by nature a bold gamester.” She dealt the cards rapidly, and was soon absorbed in the game, though she quarreled with Ann occasionally, and knocked over the candlestick once. Adelaide played heroically, and was praised, though I knew she hated play.

Two hours passed before we were released. The fire went out, the candles burnt low, and whatever the contents of the silver porringer, they had long been cold. When Mrs. Hepburn saw us determined to go, she sent us to the sideboard for some refreshment. “My caudle is cold,” taking off the cover of the porringer. “Why, Mari, what is this?” she said, as the woman made a noiseless entrance with a bowl of hot caudle.

“I knew how it would be,” she answered, putting it into the hands of her mistress.

“I am a desperate old rake, you mean, Mari. There, take your virtue off, you appall me.”

She poured the caudle into small silver tumblers, and gave them to us. “The Bequest of a Friend” was engraved on them. Her fingers were like ice, and her head shook with fatigue; but her voice was sprightly and her smile bright. Ann ate a good deal of sponge cake, and omitted the caudle, but I drank mine to the memory of the donor of the cup.

“You know that sherry, Ben,” and Mrs. Hepburn nodded him toward a decanter. He put his hand on it, and took it away. “None to-night,” he said. Mari came with our shawls, and we hastened away, hearing her shoot the bolt of the door behind us. Ben drew my arm in his, and the girls walked rapidly before us. It was a white, hazy night, and the moon was wallowing in clouds.

“Let us walk off the flavor of Hep’s cards,” said Adelaide, “and go to Wolf’s Point.”

“Do you wish to go?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

Ann skipped. A nocturnal excursion suited her exactly.

“You are not to have the toothache to-morrow, or pretend to be lame,” said Adelaide.

“Not another hiss, Adder. En avant!”

We passed down Norfolk Street, now dark and silent, and reached our house. A light was burning in a room in the third story, and a window was open. Desmond sat by it, his arms folded across his chest, smoking, and contemplating some object beyond our view. Ann derisively apostrophized him, under her breath, while Ben unlocked the court gate and went in after Rash, who came out quietly, and we proceeded. In looking behind me, I stumbled.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“The Prince of Darkness.”

“The devil lives a little behind us.”

“In you, too, then?”

“In Rash. Look at him; he is bigger than Faust’s dog, jumps higher, and is blacker. You can’t hear the least sound from him as he gambols with his familiar.”

We left the last regular street on that side of the city, and entered a road, bordered by trees and bushes, which hid the country from us. We crept through a gap in it, crossed two or three spongy fields, and ascended a hill, reaching an abrupt edge of the rocks, over whose earthy crest we walked. Below it I saw a strip of the sea, hemmed in on all sides, for the light was too vague for me to see its narrow outlet. It looked milky, misty, and uncertain; the predominant shores stifled its voice, if it ever had one. Adelaide and Ann crouched over the edge of the rock, reciting, in a chanting tone, from a poem beginning:

“The river of thy thoughts must keep
its solemn course too still and deep
For idle eyes to see.”

Their false intonation of voice and the wordy spirit of the poem convinced me that poetry with them was an artificial taste. I turned away. The dark earth and the rolling sky were better. Ben followed.

“I hope Veronica’s letter will come to-morrow,” he said with a groan.

“Veronica! Why Veronica?”

“Don’t torment me.”

“She writes letters seldom.”

“I have written her.”

“She has never written me.”

“It might be the means of revealing you to each other to do so.”

“Ben, your native air is deleterious.”

“You laugh. I feel what you say. I do not attempt to play the missionary at home, for my field is not here.”

“You were wise not to bring Veronica, I see already.”

“She would see what I hate myself for.”

“One may venture farther with a friend than a lover.”

“I thought that you might understand the results of my associations. Curse them all! Come, girls, we must go back.”