“Where does she keep her flowers?”

“In wire baskets, in her room.  But I must go to make Arthur some gingerbread.  He likes mine the best, and I like to please him.”

“I dare say you spoil him.”

“Just as you were spoiled.”

“Not in Barmouth, Aunt Merce.”

“No, not in Barmouth, Cassy.”

I went from room to room, seeing little to interest me.  My zeal oozed away for exploration, and when I entered my chamber I could have said, “This spot is the summary of my wants, for it contains me.”  I must be my own society, and as my society was not agreeable, the more circumscribed it was, the better I could endure it.  What a dreary prospect!  The past was vital, the present dead!  Life in Surrey must be dull.  How could I forget or enjoy?  I put the curtains down, and told Temperance, who was wandering about, not to call me to dinner.  I determined, if possible, to surpass my dullness by indulgence.  But underneath it all I could not deny that there was a specter, whose aimless movements kept me from stagnating.  I determined to drag it up and face it.

“Come,” I called, “and stand before me; we will reason together.”

It uncovered, and asked: 

“Do you feel remorse and repentance?”

“Neither!”

“Why suffer then?”

“I do not know why.”

“You confess ignorance.  Can you confess that you are selfish, self-seeking—­devilish?”

“Are you my devil?”

No answer.

“Am I cowardly, or a liar?”

It laughed, a faint, sarcastic laugh.

“At all events,” I continued, “are not my actions better than my thoughts?”

“Which makes the sinner, and which the saint?”

“Can I decide?”

“Why not?”

“My teachers and myself are so far apart!  I have found a counterpart; but, specter, you were born of the union.”

My head was buried in my arms; but I heard a voice at my elbow—­a shrill, scornful voice it was.  “Are you coming down to tea, then?”

Looking up, I saw Fanny.  “Tea-time so soon?”

“Yes, it is.  You think nothing of time; have nothing to do, I suppose.”

And she clasped her hands over her apron—­hands so small and thin that they looked like those of an old woman.  Her hair was light and scanty, her complexion sallow, and her eyes a palish gray; but her features were delicate and pretty.  She seemed to understand my thoughts.

“You think I am stunted, don’t you?”

“You are not large to my eye.”

“Suppose you had been fed mostly on Indian meal, with a herring or a piece of salted pork for a relish, and clams or tautog for a luxury, as I have been, would you be as tall and as grand-looking as you are now?  And would you be covering up your face, making believe worry?”

“May be not.  You may tell mother that I am coming.”

“I shall not say ‘Miss Morgeson,’ but ‘Cassandra.’  ’Cassandra Morgeson,’ if I like.”