the same; she found it more difficult to visualize the actors in the youth that had been theirs.
Bart Bolliver had arrived, it seemed, in the sunset. His boxes went before him, to the Gloria, borne down Ingram Wharf by sailormen, and he had presented himself and his cowhide bag at the door of the Ingram house. No door-bell such as to-day he had vainly pealed upon—no indeed, he assured them, it was a fine double knock that he rapped out with the great brass knocker. Was it Lucia or Ellen who opened the door to him? They disputed it now between themselves, laughing a little. But Mr. Bolliver remembered—it was Ellen, in the lavender silk frock.
Great-grandmother was alive then, and sat by the window, her fine hands folded upon the lap of her black dress, looking serenely out upon the gilded slope of Chesley Street that ran straight down to the fire of sunset on the harbor. Beside her, Mr. Bolliver recalled, was her candle-stand with the candle and snuffers upon it, and Miss Lucia added that there was surely the Bible and her silver-bowed spectacles, as well. The second Mark's wife was there, too, who was Jane's grandmother, a
