Hanging in the grim library, with its few old-fashioned books upon the crazy shelves, were portraits of the colonel, a veritable Virginia colonel, with a tremendous shirt ruffle rushing out of his generous bosom, and his rosy face wearing a look of majestic solemnity common in portraits, but which Colonel Baskerville never wore for five consecutive minutes in his life. Then there were portraits of George and Marmaduke, both handsome lads, both as alike as two peas, and, besides, a portrait of little Amy. She was about sixteen when it was painted. It was so sweet, so sad! There was not a trace of weakness in the half-womanish, half-childish mouth and chin. In the delicate, well-poised head one could see more will power, more intellect, than in the portly colonel and both of the handsome, frank-faced boys put together. This was not Amy's only picture. There was an old daguerreotype on the drawing-room table which revealed her in a white dress, and half a dozen faded photographs of her in her riding-habit, in fancy dress, in numerous other costumes and attitudes, sometimes with one, sometimes with another, of her brothers; and a whole bookful of sketches, scribbled all over, "The Book of Amy. Life and Adventures of Amy Baskerville. By G. B., Esq.," in which G. B., who had considerable skill, pictured Amy in numberless grotesque and humiliating circumstances, and once or twice as she must truly have been, graceful and picturesque. Then there were piles of old-fashioned, desperately sentimental songs on the broken-down old piano in the drawing-room, which had once been sung by Amy's fresh young voice. One day Mrs. Hereford came across a frayed little white satin slipper that had been Amy's, and had evidently done good service. It was the saddest little reminder in the world. It was like the ghost of youth and joy. And there was a broken fan, laid away in tissue paper, and inscribed, "To be mended." Mrs. Hereford locked these little girlish relics up carefully in the drawer of the dressing-table in what had been Amy's room. On the dressing-table was an old-fashioned swinging glass, in which Amy had once been wont to look roguishly, admiring her own fresh beauty. The glass remained, but Amy was dust and ashes. One afternoon Mrs. Hereford, sitting on the porch, around which the vines had grown in neglected luxuriance, saw an old negro woman coming up the pathway toward the house. She was very infirm, and leaned upon the shoulder of a little darky about ten years old, who dutifully supported her. She stopped at the foot of the steps, and, with an old-fashioned courtesy, said, "Good-evenin', my mistis." "Good-evening, aunty," replied Mrs. Hereford, having learned that much of Southern etiquette. "Won't you walk in and rest yourself?" She crept painfully up the steps, and sat down in the rush-bottomed chair offered her. The little darky squatted on the steps, and fixed a pair of bright black beads on "de lady f'um de Norf," which he never removed.