“Sit down, when you get there, and show less,” she said.  I went in softly, and stood behind mother’s chair, slightly abashed for a moment in the presence of the party—­some eight or ten ladies, dressed in black levantine, or cinnamon-colored silks, who were seated in rocking-chairs, all the rocking-chairs in the house having been carried to the parlor for the occasion.  They were knitting, and every one had a square velvet workbag.  Most of them wore lace caps, trimmed with white satin ribbon.  They were larger, more rotund, and older than mother, whose appearance struck me by contrast.  Perhaps it was the first time I observed her dress; her face I must have studied before, for I knew all her moods by it.  Her long, lusterless, brown hair was twisted around a high-topped tortoise-shell comb; it was so heavy and so carelessly twisted that the comb started backward, threatening to fall out.  She had minute rings of filigreed gold in her ears.  Her dress was a gray pongee, simply made and short; I could see her round-toed morocco shoes, tied with black ribbon.  She usually took out her shoestrings, not liking the trouble of tying them.  A ruffle of fine lace fell around her throat, and the sleeves of her short-waisted dress were puffed at the shoulders.  Her small white hands were folded in her lap, for she was idle; on the little finger of her left hand twinkled a brilliant garnet ring, set with diamonds.  Her face was colorless, the forehead extremely low, the nose and mouth finely cut, the eyes of heavenly blue.  Although youth had gone, she was beautiful, with an indescribable air of individuality.  She influenced all who were near her; her atmosphere enveloped them.  She was not aware of it, being too indifferent to the world to observe what effect she had in it, and only realized that she was to herself a self-tormentor.  Whether she attracted or repelled, the power was the same.  I make no attempt to analyze her character.  I describe her as she appeared, and as my memory now holds her.  I never understood her, and for that reason she attracted my attention.  I felt puzzled now, she seemed so different from anybody else.  My observation was next drawn to Veronica, who, entirely at home, walked up and down the room in a blue cambric dress.  She was twisting in her fingers a fine gold chain, which hung from her neck.  I caught her cunning glance as she flourished some tansy leaves before her face, imitating Mrs. Dexter to the life.  I laughed, and she came to me.

“See,” she said softly, “I have something from heaven.”  She lifted her white apron, and I saw under it, pinned to her dress, a splendid black butterfly, spotted with red and gold.

“It is mine,” she said, “you shall not touch it.  God blew it in through the window; but it has not breathed yet.”

“Pooh; I have three mice in the kitchen.”

“Where is the mother?”

“In the hayrick, I suppose, I left it there.”

“I hate you,” she said, in an enraged voice.  “I would strike you, if it wasn’t for this holy butterfly.”