Before commencing, she wandered up and down the room a little, stopped before the dressing-bureau, brushed back the hair, with many repetitions of stroke, from the temples wherein so much of worship had been gathered, smoothed down the swollen arches of veinery that fretted across either temple’s dome, looked one moment into the censers of incense that burned always with emotionary fires, flashed out a little superabundant flame into the cold quicksilver, turned the key, fastening our two selves in, examined the integrity of the latch leading into the dressing-room beyond, threw up the window-sash,—­the same one that Mr. Axtell had lifted to look out into the night for her,—­asked, “should I be cold, if she left it open?” looked contentment at my negative answer, rolled the lounge out to where her easy-chair was still vibrating in memory of her late presence, made me its occupant, reached out for the package over which I had been guardian, pinioned it between her two beautiful hands, laid it down one moment to wrap a shawl around me, then, resuming it, sat where she had when she said, “I want to tell you a story,” and perhaps she was praying.  I may never know, but it was many moments before she made answer to my slight touch, “Yes, child, I have not forgotten,” and with face hidden from me she told me her story.

MISS AXTELL’S STORY.

“Alice Axtell was my sister.  Eighteen years ago last August-time she was here.

“There has been beauty in the Axtell race; in her it was radiant.  It would have been truth to say, ‘She is beautiful.’

“I said that it was August-time,—­the twenty-seventh day of the month.  Alice and I had been out in the little bay outside of Redcliff beach, with your sister.  You don’t remember her:  she was like you.  Doctor Percival had given Mary a boat, taught her to row it, and she had that afternoon given Alice a first lesson in the art.  The day went down hot and sultry; we lingered on the cooler beach until near evening.  We saw clouds lying dark along the western horizon, and that voiceless lightnings played in them.  Then we came home.  The air was tiresome, the walk seemed endless; still Alice and Mary lingered at the gate of your father’s house to say their last words.  The mid-summer weariness was over us both, as we reached home.  We came up to this room,—­our room then.  Alice said,—­

“‘I think I shall go to bed, I’m so tired.’

“She closed the blinds.  As she did so, a crash of thunder came.

“‘We’re going to have a thunder-shower, after all,’ she said; ’how quickly it is coming up!  Come and see.’

“I looked a moment out.  Jet masses of vapor were curling up amid the stars, blotting out, one by one, their brightness from the sky.  Alice was always timid in thunder-storms.  She shuddered, as a second flash pealed out its thunder, and crept up to me.  I put my arms around her, and rested my cheek against her head.  She was trembling violently.