The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

The Gates Ajar. 37
She surprised me by running lightly up the
steps. I had imagined a somewhat advanced
age and a sedate amount of infirmities, to
be necessary concomitants of aunthood. She
came in all sparkling with rain-drops, and,
gently pushing aside the hand with which I
was trying to pay her driver, said, laughing:"Here we are, bag and baggage, you see,'big trunk, little trunk,' &c., &c. You did not
expect me? Ah, my letter missed then. It is
too bad to take you by storm in this way.
Come, Faith! No, don't trouble about the
trunks just now. Shall I go right in here? "
Her voice had a sparkle in it, like the drops
on her veil, but it was low and very sweet. I
took her in by the dining-room fire, and was
turning to take off the little girl's things, when
a soft hand stayed me, and I saw that she had
drawn off the wet veil. A face somewhat
pale looked down at me, she is taller than
I,- with large, compassionate eyes.
" I am too wet to kiss you, but I must have a
look," she said, smiling. "That will do. You
are like your mother, very like."
I don't know what possessed me, whether it
was the sudden, sweet feeling of kinship with
something alive, or whether it was her face or
her voice, or all together, but I said: