The butler came back after a chilly interval, and ushered Mrs. Treverton up the broad, ghastly-looking staircase, where drab walls looked down upon a stone-coloured carpet, to the big, bare drawing-room, which had ever been one of the coldest memories of her childhood. It was a long and lofty room, furnished with monumental rosewood. The cheffoniers were like tombs--the sofa suggested an altar--the centre table looked as massive as one of those Druidic _menhirs_ which crop up here and there among the wilds of Dartmoor, or the sandy plains of Brittany. A pale-faced clock ticked solemnly on the white marble chimney-piece, three tall windows let in narrow streaks of pallid daylight, between voluminous drab curtains. In this mausoleum-like chamber, beside a dull and miserly-looking fire, sat an old lady in black satin--the very same figure, the very same satin gown, Laura remembered years ago; or a gown so like that it appeared the same. ‘Aunt,’ said Laura, approaching timidly, and feeling as if she were a little child again, and doomed to solitary imprisonment in that awful room, ‘have you forgotten me?’ The old lady in black satin held out her hand, a withered white hand clad in a black mitten, and adorned with old-fashioned rings. ‘No, my dear,’ she replied, without any indication of surprise, ‘I never forget anyone or anything. My memory is good, and my sight and hearing are good. Providence has been very kind to me. Your card puzzled me at first, but when I came to think it over I soon understood who you were. Sit down, my dear. Jonam shall bring you a glass of sherry.’ The old lady rose and rang the bell. ‘Please don’t, aunt,’ said Laura. ‘I never take sherry. I don’t want anything except to talk with you a little about my poor father.’ ‘Poor Stephen,’ replied Mrs. Malcolm. ‘Sadly imprudent, poor fellow. Nobody’s enemy but his own. And so you are married, my dear? Never mind, Jonam, my niece will not take anything.’ This to the butler. ‘You were adopted by an old friend of your father’s, I remember. I went to Chiswick the day after poor Stephen’s death, and found that you had been taken away. I was very glad to know you were provided for; though of course I should have done what I could for you in the way of trying to get you into an institution, or something of that kind. I could never have had a child in this house. Children upset everything. I hope your father’s friend has carried out his undertaking handsomely?’ ‘He was all goodness,’ answered Laura. ‘He was more than a father to me. But I lost him two years ago.’ ‘I hope he left you independent?’ ‘He made me independent by a deed of trust, when I first went to him. He settled six thousand pounds for my benefit.’ ‘Very handsome indeed. And pray whom have you married?’ ‘My benefactor’s nephew, and the inheritor of his estate.’ ‘You have been a very lucky girl, Laura, and you ought to be thankful to God.’ ‘I hope I am thankful.’