CHAPTER XIII.
THE MOTHER'S CURSE.
"There, Agnes, you may go now. How do you like my looks? Will I do to appear before the the strange gentleman?"
"Look, Miss Lily? Why you look like the buful cloud I seed lyin' so soft and still in de sunshine, honey. But I like the white dress more, for den you look just like de angels, waiting for de wings."
"That will do. You have imagination sufficient for a poet, Agnes, but you may go now."
She smiled as she waved her hand towards the door with a delicate movement, and she was alone. Only a moment, however, for the faithful servant had just disappeared when the door reopened and Mrs. Belmont entered the apartment. She was still graceful and queenly in her bearing, and her long black dress swept the rich carpet with an imperious air. Time had been very gentle with that fair face, touching lightly her brow with his unwelcome traces, neither quenching the fire in her dark eyes nor dulling the lustre of her glossy hair. Yet her regal head had a habit of drooping, as if weary of its weight of thought, and her lips became more and more compressed as their color faded and lines of anxious care grew deeper as the years rolled by.
"I came to tell you that there was to be company at dinner."