“The stories about her reception of the strangers do not agree.  According to one, the old lady was all resistance and indignation at this intrusion; according to another, she gave way, passively, as if she were no longer sole mistress of the house.”

Constance ceased speaking, for there came the usual interruption to our evening tete-a-tete—­the ringing of my office bell.

“You are wanted up at the Allen House, Doctor, said my boy, coming in from the office a few moments afterwards.

“Who is sick?” I asked.

“The old lady.”

“Any thing serious?”

“I don’t know, sir.  But I should think there was from the way old Aunty looked.  She says, come up as quickly as you can.”

“Is she in the office?”

“No, sir.  She just said that, and then went out in a hurry.”

“The plot thickens,” said I, looking at Constance.

“Poor old lady!” There was a shade of pity in her tones.

“You have not seen her for many years?”

“No.”

“Poor old witch of Endor! were better said.”

“Oh!” answered my wife, smiling, “you know that the painter’s idea of this celebrated individual has been reversed by some, who affirm that she was young and handsome instead of old and ugly like modern witches.”

“I don’t know how that may be, but if you could see Mrs. Allen, you would say that ‘hag’ were a better term for her than woman.  If the good grow beautiful as they grow old, the loving spirit shining like a lamp through the wasted and failing walls of flesh, so do the evil grow ugly and repulsive.  Ah, Constance, the lesson is for all of us.  If we live true lives, our countenances will grow radiant from within, as we advance in years; if selfish, worldly, discontented lives, they will grow cold, hard, and repulsive.”

I drew on my boots and coat, and started on my visit to the Allen House.  The night was in perfect contrast with the previous one.  There was no moon, but every star shone with its highest brilliancy, while the galaxy threw its white scarf gracefully across the sky, veiling millions of suns in their own excessive brightness.  I paused several times in my walk, as broader expanses opened between the great elms that gave to our town a sylvan beauty, and repeated, with a rapt feeling of awe and admiration, the opening stanza of a familiar hymn:—­

“The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.”

How the beauty and grandeur of nature move the heart, as if it recognized something of its own in every changing aspect.  The sun and moon and stars—­the grand old mountains lifting themselves upwards into serene heights—­the limitless expanse of ocean, girdling the whole earth—­rivers, valleys, and plains—­trees, flowers, the infinite forms of life—­to all the soul gives some response, as if they were akin.