There was about this woman, who had no kith nor kin, nor equal friends, nor money, nor treasures, nor name, and scarce her own individuality in the minds of others, a strange atmosphere of silence, broken seldom by uncouth, stammering speech, which always intimidated the little Lucina.  She had, however, a way of expanding, after long stares at her, into sudden broad smiles which relieved the little girl’s apprehension; and, too, her rusty black bombazine smelled always of rich cake—­a reassuring perfume to one who knew the taste of it.

Lucina’s aunt Camilla was a nervous soul, and liked not the rattle of starched cotton about the house.  Her old serving-woman must go always clad in woollen, which held the odors of cooking long.

Lucina sat down in a little rocking-chair, hollowed out like a nest in back and seat, which was her especial resting-place, and ’Liza went out, leaving the rich, fruity odor of cake behind her, saying no word, but evidently to tell her mistress of her guest.  There were no blinds on this ancient house, but there were inside shutters in fine panel-work at all the windows.  These were all closed except at the east windows.  There between the upper panels were left small square apertures which framed little pictures of the blue spring sky, slanted across with blooming peach boughs; for there was a large peach orchard on the east side of the house.  Lucina watched these little pictures, athwart which occasionally a bird flew and raised them to life.  She held her doll primly, and her little work-bag still dangled from her arm.  She would not begin her task of knitting until her aunt appeared and her visit was fairly in progress.

Over against the south wall stood a clock as tall as a giant man, and giving in the half-light a strong impression of the presence of one, to an eye which did not front it.  Lucina often turned her head with a start and looked, to be sure it was only the clock which sent that long, dark streak athwart her vision.  The clock ticked with slow and solemn majesty.  She was sure that sixty of those ticks would make a minute, and sixty times the sixty an hour, if she could count up to that and not get lost in such a sea of numbers; but she could not tell the time of day by the clock hands.

Lucina was a quick-witted child, but seemed in some particulars to have a strange lack of curiosity, or else an instinct to preserve for herself an imagination instead of acquiring knowledge.  She was either obstinately or involuntarily ignorant as yet of the method of telling time, and the hands of the clock were held before its face of mystery for concealment rather than revelation to her.  But she loved to sit and watch the clock, and she never told her mother what she thought about it.  Directly in front of Lucina, as she sat waiting, hanging over the mantel-shelf between the east windows, was a great steel engraving of the Declaration of Independence.  Lucina looked