Miss Vesta looked up at the portraits. Grandmother Darracott in turban and shawl, Grandfather Darracott splendid with frill and gold seals, looked down on her benignantly, as they had always looked. They had been part of her life, these kindly, silent figures. She had always felt sure of Grandmother Darracott's sympathy and understanding. Sometimes when, as a child, she fancied herself naughty (but she never was!), she would appeal from the keen, inquiring gaze of Grandfather Darracott to those soft brown eyes, so like her own, if she had only known it; and the brown eyes never failed to comfort and reassure her. Part with one of those pictures? A month ago the request would have brought her distress and searchings of heart, with wonder whether it might not be her duty to do so just because it was painful; but Miss Vesta was changed. It was as if Miss Phoebe, in passing, had let the shadow of her mantle fall on her younger sister. "I cannot consider the question, Maria!" she said, quietly. "My dear sister would have been quite unwilling to do so, I am sure. And now, as I have duties to attend to, shall I show you your room?" Miss Vesta drifted up the wide staircase, and Mrs. Pryor stumped and creaked behind her. "You have put me in Phoebe's room, I suppose," said the visitor, as they reached the landing. "So near you, I can give you any attention you may need in the night. Besides, the sun--oh, the dimity room! Well, I dare say it will do well enough. Stuffy, isn't it? but I am the easiest person in the world to satisfy. And _how_ is Aunt Marcia? I shall go to see her the first thing in the morning; she will hardly expect me to call this afternoon, though I could make a special effort if you think she would feel sensitive." "Indeed, Maria, I am very sorry, but I don't feel sure--in fact, I rather fear that you may not be able to see Aunt Marcia, at all events just at present."