"There's a woman downstairs, ma'am, as particularly wants to speak with you."
"A woman?" I reply, lazily. "What sort of a woman Tynon?"
"Well, ma'am, a handsome woman as far as I can judge. A furriner, I would say. A woman of a fine presence—as might be a lady; but I ain't quite certain on that point."
"Oh, Tynon, show her up," I say, hastily, feeling dismayed, as I picture to myself a lady left standing in the hall while Tynon makes up his mind as to what her proper position in society may be.
He obeys my behest with alacrity, and in a very few moments "the woman" and I are face to face; nay, as she comes slowly forward, and throws back her veil, and fixes upon me her wonderful eyes, I know, with a sinking of the heart, that I am face to face with Bebe's ghost.
I am startled and impressed—uncomfortably impressed—as I gaze on the remains of what must once have been an extraordinary beauty. I have risen on her entrance, and we now stand—my strange visitor and I—staring at each other in silence, with only the little work-table between us.
She is dressed in deepest black of a good texture; I am in rich brown velvet. She is tall and full—truly, as Tynon had described her, "a woman of a fine presence;" I am small and very slight. Her eyes are large, and dark, and burning—such eyes as belong to the South alone; mine, large too, are gray-blue, and soft and calm.
I feel fascinated, and slightly terrified. At last I speak.
"Is there anything I can do? I believe you wished to speak to me!" I venture, weakly, and with hesitation.
"I do," says my strange visitor, never removing her piercing gaze from my face. "I also wished to see you close. So you are his wife, are you? A child, a mere doll!"