Altogether, these seemed to me droll people, they said so little, and,
saving the small German, were so serenely grave. I suppose that first
evening must have made a deep mark on my memory, for to this day I
recall it with the clearness of a picture still before my eyes. Between
the windows sat the old dame with hands quiet on her lap now that the
twilight had grown deeper--a silent, gray Quaker sphinx, with one only
remembrance out of all her seventy years of life. In the open window sat
as in a frame the daughter, a woman of some twenty-five years, rosy yet
as only a Quakeress can be when rebel Nature flaunts on the soft cheek
the colors its owner may not wear on her gray dress. The outline was of
a face clearly cut and noble, as if copied from a Greek gem--a face
filled with a look of constant patience too great perhaps for one
woman's share, with a certain weariness in it also at times, yet
cheerful too, and even almost merry at times--the face of one more
thoughtful of others than herself, and, despite toil and sordid cares, a
gentlewoman, as was plain to see. The shaft of light from the window in
which she sat broadened into the room, and faded to shadow in far
corners among chairs with claw toes and shining mahogany tables--the
furniture of that day, with a certain flavor about it of elegance,
reflecting the primness and solidness of the owners. I wonder if to-day
our furniture represents us too in any wise? At least it will not
through the generations to follow us: of that we may be sure.
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