me. It was not more than six feet high, and the top was adorned with statuettes in marble, ranged at regular distances one from the other. On the opposite side stood two antique cabinets; and between them, and above them, hung a picture of the Virgin and Child, protected by glass, and bearing Raphael’s name on the gilt tablet at the bottom of the frame. On my right hand and on my left, as I stood inside the door, were chiffoniers and little stands in buhl and marquetterie, loaded with figures in
she asked. “North or south?”
“North—to Cumberland.”
“Cumberland!” she repeated the word tenderly. “Ah! wish I was going there too. I was once happy in Cumberland.”
I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this woman and me.
“Perhaps you were born,” I said, “in the beautiful Lake country.”
“No,”