"There's a fire there. It's chilly." She perched herself on a high chair, her toes on the rung, while she subjected me to a rigid cross-examination about my father. I observed her as closely. A small, withered old woman, as if Nature had at first begrudged her the sap and genial juices of life, and dried them out of her as speedily as might be; only her eyes blazed, fresh, keen, vindictive. She sat bolt upright in her chair, her skinny hands crossed over her coarse blue dress, the fingers loaded with rings, many of them jewels of great value. Her white hair was drawn back in a thick puff under a cap of cheap lace, and fastened there with a diamond pin. A great turnip-shaped gold watch was fastened on her left shoulder, her hollow chest garlanded with massive chains, a bunch of steel keys ending them, among which those of the pantry and cellar were conspicuous. She pronounced my verdict at last. "I believe you are not lying. Come Marquise into my house. I am glad to see Philip Humphreys's son. A shiftless dog, but good blood, good blood,"--leading me into a spacious dining-room, uncarpeted and dreary, the plaster falling from the walls, but a magnificent buffet filling up one entire side and laden with massive plate, among which I noticed several cups, prizes at Southern race-courses. Her keen eye caught my passing glance at them. "Yes, yes! I had a good eye for the the turf once! Keep clear of it, young Humphreys! It has gone down into a money-making jobbery. Gentlemen cannot keep even their vices intact--in--the--Republic," with a delicate, fine smile of satire.