"It was his chair; he died in it," said Aunt Rachel.
"And you—shall you die in it?"
"As God wills."
"Has … other life … visited it long?"
"Many years; but it is always small; it never grows."
"To their mothers babes never grow. They remain ever babes…. None other has ever seen it?"
"Except yourself, none. I sit here; presently it creeps into my arms; it is small and warm; I rock, and then… it goes."
"Would it come to another chair?"
"I cannot tell. I think not. It was his chair."
Annabel mused. At the other end of the room Flora was now bestowed on Jack, the disreputable sailor. The gipsy's eyes rested on the bridal party….