“Sophia,” said she, “where are the gentry waiting?” And just then she came in sight round the turn of the staircase.  She wore the same great black bonnet and satin gown, and looked more old-fashioned and ghostly than before.  She was not tall, but very erect, in spite of her great age, and her eyes seemed to “look through you” in an uncanny way.  She slowly descended the stairs and came toward us with a courteous greeting, and when we had introduced ourselves as Miss Carew’s friends she gave us each her hand in a most cordial way and said she was pleased to see us.  She bowed us into the parlor and brought us two rickety, straight-backed chairs, which, with an old table, were all the furniture there was in the room.  “Sit ye down,” said she, herself taking a place in the window-seat.  I have seen few more elegant women than Miss Chauncey.  Thoroughly at her ease, she had the manner of a lady of the olden times, using the quaint fashion of speech which she had been taught in her girlhood.  The long words and ceremonious phrases suited her extremely well.  Her hands were delicately shaped, and she folded them in her lap, as no doubt she had learned to do at boarding-school so many years before.  She asked Kate and me if we knew any young ladies at that school in Boston, saying that most of her intimate friends had left when she did, but some of the younger ones were there still.

She asked for the Carews and Mr. Lorimer, and when Kate told her that she was Miss Brandon’s niece, and asked if she had not known her, she said, “Certainly, my dear; we were intimate friends at one time, but I have seen her little of late.”

“Do you not know that she is dead?” asked Kate.

“Ah, they say every one is ‘dead,’ nowadays.  I do not comprehend the silly idea!” said the old lady, impatiently.  “It is an excuse, I suppose.  She could come to see me if she chose, but she was always a ceremonious body, and I go abroad but seldom now; so perhaps she waits my visit.  I will not speak uncourteously, and you must remember me to her kindly.”

Then she asked us about other old people in Deephaven, and about families in Boston whom she had known in her early days.  I think every one of whom she spoke was dead, but we assured her that they were all well and prosperous, and we hoped we told the truth.  She asked about the love-affairs of men and women who had died old and gray-headed within our remembrance; and finally she said we must pardon her for these tiresome questions, but it was so rarely she saw any one direct from Boston, of whom she could inquire concerning these old friends and relatives of her family.