“Is that the name of this house, miss?”

“One of its names, boy.”

“It has more than one, then, miss?”

“One more.  Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or Hebrew, or all three — or all one to me — for enough.”

“Enough House,” said I; “that’s a curious name, miss.”

“Yes,” she replied; “but it meant more than it said.  It meant, when it was given, that whoever had this house, could want nothing else.  They must have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think.  But don’t loiter, boy.”

Though she called me “boy” so often, and with a carelessness that was far from complimentary, she was of about my own age.  She seemed much older than I, of course, being a girl, and beautiful and self-possessed; and she was as scornful of me as if she had been one-and-twenty, and a queen.

We went into the house by a side door — the great front entrance had two chains across it outside — and the first thing I noticed was, that the passages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there.  She took it up, and we went through more passages and up a staircase, and still it was all dark, and only the candle lighted us.

At last we came to the door of a room, and she said, “Go in.”

I answered, more in shyness than politeness, “After you, miss.”

To this, she returned:  “Don’t be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in.”  And scornfully walked away, and — what was worse — took the candle with her.

This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid.  However, the only thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told from within to enter.  I entered, therefore, and found myself in a pretty large room, well lighted with wax candles.  No glimpse of daylight was to be seen in it.  It was a dressing-room, as I supposed from the furniture, though much of it was of forms and uses then quite unknown to me.  But prominent in it was a draped table with a gilded looking-glass, and that I made out at first sight to be a fine lady’s dressing-table.

Whether I should have made out this object so soon, if there had been no fine lady sitting at it, I cannot say.  In an arm-chair, with an elbow resting on the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the strangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see.

She was dressed in rich materials — satins, and lace, and silks — all of white.  Her shoes were white.  And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white.  Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table.  Dresses, less splendid than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about.  She had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on — the other was on the table near her hand — her veil was but half arranged, her watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some flowers, and a prayer-book, all confusedly heaped about the looking-glass.