“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.”