Mrs. Ware was delighted by Delavan’s coming, and would listen to no other arrangement than that he should stay with them, at least over night. When she heard this Charlotte considered whether or not she should deny herself the excitement of attending the meeting that night. She had already accepted the escort of a young admirer whose sentiments were as vehemently pro-slavery as her own, and he had confided to her that something interesting was likely to happen. Perhaps it would be just as interesting to stay at home and prevent Mr. Delavan from showing Rhoda too much attention. But there would be opportunity for that afterward, and the meeting would be only that evening. So she decided not to send word to her escort that she had changed her mind. When she came downstairs ready to go, her father, meeting her in the hall, said, with more gravity than he was accustomed to use toward her: “I hope, Charlotte, you won’t let that young Saunders forget who you are.” “Don’t you worry, father,” she responded assuringly. “I won’t let him hiss you, anyway.” With much inward regret Dr. Ware gave up his plan of taking Rhoda to the meeting with him. She and her mother sat on the veranda with their guest and Mrs. Ware told them anecdotes about her own and his mother’s girlhood and of the intimacy which had caused the young women to be known among all their acquaintance as “the two alter egos.” “And after awhile,” said Mrs. Ware, in happy reminiscence, “they always called one of us ‘alter’ and the other ‘ego,’ without making any distinction as to which was which.” In the days of that friendship they had had their miniatures painted, each for the other, and Delavan had brought, from his dead mother’s possessions, that of Mrs. Ware. “I thought you might like to have it again, Mrs. Ware, madam,” he said, in his slightly ceremonious manner, “either for yourself, as a memento of your girlhood, or to give to Miss Rhoda.” Rhoda bent over it with eager, tender interest. “Oh, mother!” she exclaimed, “does this really look as you did then? How you have changed!” And, indeed, in her matronly figure, short and plump, there was little suggestion of the trim and graceful outlines of the young girl in the picture. The brown hair had grown quite gray, the bright color had faded from the face, and the dainty contour of cheek, chin and throat had been despoiled by the quarter-century which had since passed over her head. But although the years had stolen her beauty they had left in its place a worthy gift. For motherliness informed her features, her look was tender, and the grace of gentleness controlled her manner.