The chamber windows opened to the west, and the reflection from the gorgeously tinted sky filled the room. In the centre of the apartment, with her eyes fixed on the glorious scene, sat an elderly lady, arrayed in a silk dressing-gown and frilled cap. She held out her hand with a welcoming smile, and then drawing down the sweet, fresh face, imprinted a loving kiss on Helen's cheek. "You make me feel young," said the old lady, after a long gaze into Helen's eyes. "You are very like your mother." "I'm glad to hear you say so. Did you know her very well? And will you tell me a great deal about her?" "I answer yes to both your questions. I hope you have come to stay a long time with me." "Yes, aunt, a month if you wish it." The old lady smiled in a knowing way, but then added: "You must be very weary after your long ride. Go down and eat your supper, but don't be away too long. I am growing selfish at once, you see." Helen soon reappeared, and gave her mother's aunt an account of her journey, half of which she had come alone, her life in Maytown, her studies, her letters from Frank, and the pleasure she anticipated in her new sister, Constance. "I wish Frank could have come with you. I don't like this way of young girls travelling alone," said Aunt Martha. "Since Frank's engagement, I am getting quite used to doing without his attentions," urged Helen, laughing. "Besides, I only came alone from S—, that is less than half way." "Who was your companion, dear?" "Mr. Knowles, a clergyman from Maytown." "Ah! I think I have heard of him, a man near my own age." "That is the father to Mr. Frederic. A kind old gentleman, and I love him dearly." Mrs. Prescott apparently did not notice the blush which accompanied these words. She only patted the delicate fingers lying in her own, and said: "I am glad you have an affectionate heart. I think you and I shall understand each other." By this time the evening was quite advanced, and Betsey, the woman who had admitted Helen, came in to make arrangements for the night. The room was very large, and contained a good deal of heavy, old-fashioned furniture. There was an immense high post bedstead, with curtains of printed linen and beyond that a narrow bed. There were two bureaus, with claw feet and carved handles, a large table, and a small work table, each in the same style, and half-a-dozen chairs of various shapes, but all with elaborately worked bottoms. On the tables and bureaus there were curiously carved boxes of quaint, old-fashioned shapes, the wood as rich and dark with age as the furniture. Exactly at nine, a bell was rung in the lower hall. "Helen," said the old lady, "we have prayers at this hour. My eyes are dim and failing, will you read for me?" "I shall love to," Helen answered, with such an emphasis, that both her aunt and Betsey, the long tried, faithful servant, smiled their approbation.