Then there was the bed-canopy, the pleatings of which were gone, and it was turned white instead of the old blue.  And the chimney-place!  That was unaccountably smaller, and glowed with a sea-coal fire.  And the mantel was now but a bit of a shelf, and held many things that seemed scarce at home on the rough and painted wood,—­gold filigree; and China and Japan, and a French clock that ought not to have been just there.  Ah, the teacups!  Here at last was something to touch a fibre of my brain, but a pain came with the effort of memory.  So my eyes went back to my grandfather in the window.  His face was now become black as Scipio’s, and he wore a red turban and a striped cotton gown that was too large for him.  And he was sewing.  This was monstrous!

I hurried over to the tea-cups, such a twinge did that discovery give me.  But they troubled me near as much, and the sea-coal fire held strange images.  The fascination in the window was not to be denied, for it stood in line with the houses and the trees.  Suddenly there rose up before me a gate.  Yes, I knew that gate, and the girlish figure leaning over it.  They were in Prince George Street.  Behind them was a mass of golden-rose bushes, and out of these came forth a black face under a turban, saying, “Yes, mistis, I’se comin’.”

“Mammy—­Mammy Lucy!”

The figure in the window stirred, and the sewing fell its ample lap.

“Now Lawd’a mercy!”

I trembled—­with a violence unspeakable.  Was this but one more of those thousand voices, harsh and gentle, rough and tender, to which I had listened in vain this age past?  The black face was hovering over me now, and in an agony of apprehension I reached up and felt its honest roughness.  Then I could have wept for joy.

“Mammy Lucy!”

“Yes, Marse Dick?”

“Where—­where is Miss Dolly?”

“Now, Marse Dick, doctah done say you not t’ talk, suh.”

“Where is Miss Dolly?” I cried, seizing her arm.

“Hush, Marse Dick.  Miss Dolly’ll come terectly, suh.  She’s lyin’ down, suh.”

The door creaked, and in my eagerness I tried to lift myself.  ’Twas Aunt Lucy’s hand that restrained me, and the next face I saw was that of Dorothy’s mother.  But why did it appear so old and sorrow-lined?  And why was the hair now of a whiteness with the lace of the cap?  She took my fingers in her own, and asked me anxiously if I felt any pain.

“Where am I, Mrs. Manners?”

“You are in London, Richard.”

“In Arlington Street?”

She shook her head sadly.  “No, my dear, not in Arlington Street.  But you are not to talk.”

“And Dorothy?  May I not see Dorothy?  Aunt Lucy tells me she is here.”

Mrs. Manners gave the old mammy a glance of reproof, a signal that alarmed me vastly.

“Oh, tell me, Mrs. Manners!  You will speak the truth.  Tell me if she is gone away?”

“My dear boy, she is here, and under this very roof.  And you shall see her as soon as Dr. Barry will permit.  Which will not be soon,” she added with a smile, “if you persist in this conduct.”