“My Uncle Peter lived there when she came, and lives there now,—­a kind of vally to the old Colonel,” she said, “and he’s told me of the mornin’ the Colonel brung her home, a queer-looking little thing,—­in her clothes, I mean,—­and offul peppery, I judge, fightin’ everybody who came near her, and rollin’ on the floor, bumpin’ and cryin’ for a nigger who had took care of her somewhere, nobody knows where, for the Colonel never told, and if Uncle Peter knows, he holds his tongue.  She was a terrible fighter at school, if things didn’t suit her, but she’s quiet enough now; seems ’s if she’d been through the fire, poor thing, and they say she don’t remember nothin’, and begins to shake if she tries to remember.  The Colonel is very kind to her; lets her have all the money she wants, and she gives away a sight.  Sent you a hat and slips, almost new, and had never seen you.  That’s like Amy, and, my soul, there she is now, comin’ down the road with the Colonel in the b’rouch.  Hurry, and you can see her; I’ll move you.”

Utterly regardless of the lame foot, which dragged on the floor and hurt cruelly, Mrs. Biggs drew Eloise to the window in time to see a handsome open carriage drawn by two splendid bays passing the house.  The Colonel was muffled up as closely as if it were midwinter, and only a part of his face and his long, white hair were visible, but he was sitting upright, with his head held high, and looked the embodiment of aristocratic pride and arrogance.  The lady beside him was very slight, and sat in a drooping kind of posture, as if she were tired, or restless, or both.  To see her face was impossible, for she was closely veiled, and neither she nor the Colonel glanced toward the house as they passed.

“I am so disappointed.  I wanted to see her face,” Eloise said, watching the carriage until it was hidden from view by a turn in the road.  “You say she is lovely?” and she turned to Mrs. Biggs.

“Lovely don’t express it.  Seraphic comes nearer.  Looks as if she had some great sorrow she was constantly thinking of, and trying to smile as she thought of it,” Mrs. Biggs replied.  Then, as Eloise looked quickly up, she exclaimed, “Well, if I ain’t beat!  It’s come to me what I’ve been tryin’ to think of ever sense I seen you.  They ain’t the same color; hers is darker, but there is a look in your eyes for all the world as hers used to be when she was a girl, and wan’t wearin’ her high-heeled shoes and ridin’ over our heads.  Them times she was as like the Colonel as one pea is like another, and her eyes fairly snapped.  Other times they was soft and tender-like, and bright as stars, with a look in ’em which I know now was kinder,—­well, kinder crazy-like, you know.”

Eloise had heard many things said of her own eyes, but never before that they were crazy-like, and did not feel greatly complimented.  She laughed, however, and said she would like to see the lady whose eyes hers were like.

Before Mrs. Biggs could reply there was a step outside, and, tiptoeing to the window, she exclaimed, in a whisper, “If I won’t give it up, there’s the ’Piscopal minister, Mr. Mason, come to call on you!  Ruby Ann must of told him you belonged to ’em.”