Miss Axtell was engaged in looking over old treasured letters, bits of memory-memoranda, when I arrived. She had laid them aside to greet me, somewhat hastily, and a rustling commotion testified their feeling at their summary disposal. Now she sat framed in by the yellow-and-white foam, that had settled to motionlessness,—an island in the midst of waves of memory.
"Did you bring my treasures?" were the first words, after investigating my truth.
"They are safely here."
I gave the package.
She made no mention of former occurrences. She trusted me implicitly, with that far-deep of confidence that says, "Explanation would be useless; your spirit recognizes mine." She only said, drooping her regal head with the slightest dip into motion,—
"I want to tell you a story; it is of people who are, some in heaven and some upon the earth;—a story with which you must have something to do for me, because I cannot do it for myself. I did not intend telling so soon, but my disbanded rainbow lies in the future."
Before commencing, she wandered up and down the room a little, stopped before the dressing-bureau, brushed back the hair, with many repetitions of stroke, from the temples wherein so much of worship had been gathered, smoothed down the swollen arches of veinery that fretted across either temple's dome, looked one moment into the censers of incense that burned always with emotionary fires, flashed out a little superabundant flame into the cold quicksilver, turned the key, fastening our two selves in, examined the integrity of the latch leading into the dressing-room beyond, threw up the window-sash,—the same one that Mr. Axtell had lifted to look out into the night for her,—asked, "should I be cold, if she left it open?" looked contentment at my negative answer, rolled the lounge out to where her easy-chair was still vibrating in memory of her late presence, made me its occupant, reached out for the package over which I had been guardian, pinioned it between her two beautiful hands, laid it down one moment to wrap a shawl around me, then, resuming it, sat where she had when she said, "I want to tell you a story," and perhaps she was praying. I may never know, but it was many moments before she made answer to my slight touch, "Yes, child, I have not forgotten," and with face hidden from me she told me her story.
MISS AXTELL'S STORY.
"Alice Axtell was my sister. Eighteen years ago last August-time she was here.
"There has been beauty in the Axtell race; in her it was radiant. It would have been truth to say, 'She is beautiful.'