At the words, “my treasures,” I suddenly recalled her speech at the lake, and instinctively my eyes turned towards it. She caught the look, and, going to the window, she went on: “My treasures, precious beyond rubies, they lie out there now; I watch them and wait for the sign.” Then, pointing with her long, bony finger, she said: “You see that dark line out there on the water; no, no, the darker, purplish one? That’s where they lie. Yes, yes, my prettys, I know, I know! but it’s weary waiting, dearies; weary, weary!” Her voice died away so drearily that I felt the tears rising in my eyes. A movement of mine made her turn to me. She put her hand up and passed it across her brow and eyes once or twice, and then, quite naturally, she went on: “I was wondering, when I came in, what I asked you here for.” I interrupted to say: “I think it was to give me pleasure.” “No,” she answered, “it wasn’t that. I know now. I thought I’d like to hear some one talk again.” I felt a bit flattered at that, but she finished with: “I haven’t heard anyone talk at home since my parrot died.” Down sat my vanity, flat. The old lady had taken off her bonnet, and, as she motioned me to a chair, she said, musingly: “I never can quite remember whether I learned to swear from the parrot, or the parrot learned from me.” She heaved a sigh and proceeded to prepare the tray for our coffee. As she moved about she continued her remarks: “Yes, we did a fairish bit of swearing between us, Poll and I; her name, by the way, was not Poll, but Sally, and, of course, I suppose some one must have taught her to do it, but it was delicious to hear the ‘bloomin’’ cussing she would give to any one who called her Sarah. Yes, all things considered, there was in the past considerable profanity in this room.” And I, glancing at the splendid frame against the whitewashed wall, recklessly made answer: “And it is not absolutely absent at this moment.” Her bright, old eye glanced from wall to frame, then back to me, her quick comprehension making my unfinished thought her finished one in an instant. She wagged her head and said: “That’s not bad, you girl,” then, with somewhat unnerving loudness, she went on: “She’s young and green, oh! but upon my soul, she’s not a fool.” Then addressing me again: “So you know some French sayings, do you? Not many though, I think; but look, you, young ears are sharp, and you should have been here before the hangings of my bed fell to bits. They were of brocatelle and lined with silk, and they cursed that whitewashed wall so venomously, had you been here in the bed, you’d not have slept one wink, unless your soul’s already gray instead of white,” and she laughed that odd, stinging laughter that was so like the crackling of thin ice upon a wintry day. While she had talked and laughed and nodded, she had prepared her coffee, and we seated ourselves at either side of the little table, she taking care to sit facing the tossing lake.