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Mrs. Dalrymple had made a slight effort to rise from her chair and Jessica had already sprung forward to help her, when the white-capped and white-haired maid appeared; but the lady now sank back again, directing:

“Show Miss Jessica to her room, Barnes, please, and help her to make what slight change is necessary now. Her luggage can be unpacked before dinner. I will wait here for her.”

“Luncheon is served, Madam,” remonstrated the maid, rather sharply.

“It can be put back. I will wait for you here,” returned the mistress with equal sharpness.

With a sniff and a bridling of her head Barnes departed, bidding Jessica: “This way, please, and mind the stairs. All this twaddle about old things being better’n new and risking mortals’ legs on rags, beats me. Hmm. Some folks grow queerer as they grow older, some does.”

Jessica followed in wondering silence and, although warned to “mind the stairs,” caught her toe in the frayed covering of one and fell. But she was up again as soon as down and without quite understanding why was indignant with her guide for the slighting tone in which she spoke. Certainly, the carpet had once been a very fine one. Even now, where an unbroken spot appeared, the foot sank deep into a mossy greenness that was delightful, and fully bore out the vivid description of this old home which her mother had sometimes given her.