'Oh! yes, poor dear old Tamar; ha, ha!' says the gentleman, with a gentle little laugh, 'I suppose she's as frightful as ever, that worthy woman. Certainly she _is_ awfully like a ghost. I wonder, Radie, you're not afraid of her at night in this cheerful habitation. _I_ should, I know.' 'A ghost _indeed_, the ghost of old times, an ugly ghost enough for many of us. Poor Tamar! she was always very kind to _you_, Stanley.' And just then old Tamar opened the door. I must allow there was something very unpleasant about that worthy old woman; and not being under any personal obligations to her, I confess my acquiescence in the spirit of Captain Lake's remarks. She was certainly perfectly neat and clean, but white predominated unpleasantly in her costume. Her cotton gown had once had a pale pattern over it, but wear and washing had destroyed its tints, till it was no better than white, with a mottling of gray. She had a large white kerchief pinned with a grisly precision across her breast, and a white linen cap tied under her chin, fitting close to her head, like a child's nightcap, such as they wore in my young days, and destitute of border or frilling about the face. It was a dress very odd and unpleasant to behold, and suggested the idea of an hospital, or a madhouse, or death, in an undefined way. She was past sixty, with a mournful puckered and puffy face, tinted all over with a thin gamboge and burnt sienna glazing; and very blue under the eyes, which showed a great deal of their watery whites. This old woman had in her face and air, along with an expression of suspicion and anxiety, a certain character of decency and respectability, which made her altogether a puzzling and unpleasant apparition. Being taciturn and undemonstrative, she stood at the door, looking with as pleased a countenance as so sad a portrait could wear upon the young gentleman. He got up at his leisure and greeted 'old Tamar,' with his sleepy, amused sort of smile, and a few trite words of kindness. So Tamar withdrew to prepare tea; and he said, all at once, with a sudden accession of energy, and an unpleasant momentary glare in his eyes-- 'You know, Rachel, this sort of thing is all nonsense. You cannot go on living like this; you must marry--you shall marry. Mark Wylder is down here, and he has got an estate and a house, and it is time he should marry you.' 'Mark Wylder is here to marry my cousin, Dorcas; and if he had no such intention, and were as free as you are, and again to urge his foolish suit upon his knees, Stanley, I would die rather than accept him.' 'It was not always so foolish a suit, Radie,' answered her brother, his eyes once more upon the carpet. 'Why should not _he_ do as well as another? You liked him well enough once.' The young lady coloured rather fiercely. 'I am not a girl of seventeen now, Stanley; and--and, besides, I _hate_ him.'