of the fine wood and the many brass handles, and of late she had been reaping a reward for her constancy.  It had been a marvel to certain progressive people that a person of her comfortable estate should be willing to reflect that there was not a marble-topped table in her house, until it slowly dawned upon them at last that she was mistress of the finest house in town.  Outwardly, it was painted white and stood close upon the street, with a few steep front steps coming abruptly down into the middle of the narrow sidewalk; its interior was spacious and very imposing, not only for the time it was built in the last century, but for any other time.  Miss Prince’s ancestors had belonged to some of the most distinguished among the colonial families, which fact she neither appeared to remember nor consented to forget; and, as often happened in the seaport towns of New England, there had been one or two men in every generation who had followed the sea.  Her own father had been among the number, and the closets of the old house were well provided with rare china and fine old English crockery that would drive an enthusiastic collector to distraction.  The carved woodwork of the railings and wainscotings and cornices had been devised by ingenious and patient craftsmen, and the same portraits and old engravings hung upon the walls that had been there when its mistress could first remember.  She had always been so well suited with her home that she had never desired to change it in any particular.  Her maids were well drilled to their duties, and Priscilla, who was chief of the staff, had been in that dignified position for many years.  If Miss Prince’s grandmother could return to Dunport from another world, she would hardly believe that she had left her earthly home for a day, it presented so nearly the same appearance.

But however conscientiously the effort had been made to keep up the old reputation for hospitality, it had somehow been a failure, and Miss Prince had given fewer entertainments every year.  Long ago, while she was still a young woman, she had begun to wear a certain quaint and elderly manner, which might have come from association with such antiquated household gods and a desire to match well with her beloved surroundings.  A great many of her early friends had died, and she was not the sort of person who can easily form new ties of intimate friendship.  She was very loyal to those who were still left, and, as has been said, her interest in George Gerry, who was his father’s namesake and likeness, was a very great pleasure to her.  Some persons liked to whisper together now and then about the mysterious niece, who was never mentioned otherwise.  But though curiosity had led to a partial knowledge of our heroine’s not unfavorable aspect and circumstances, nobody ever dared to give such information to the person who should have been most interested.