forth with a courtly bow. It must have been evident that in the quick gray eyes of this old gentleman lurked an unmistakable clear gleam of the young Bart, bound for China. For the aunts held up neatly gloved hands and cried, "O Mr. Bolliver!" with one accord.
There was much bustling then, wherein the little servant, just returned from market, was harried, and Jane nearly tripped over a rug while carrying the majestic Ingram tea-urn, and the aunts' blue eyes filled with anxiety, and Mr. Bolliver knit everything together with helpful jocularity. Then Jane effaced herself with a sugar-cake and listened spellbound to her elders' reminiscent conversation. The aunts, usually concerned with present-day anxieties, and never quite realizing Jane's keen desire to hear tales of the things they could remember, rarely searched their old minds for details so long passed. Now, stimulated by Mr. Bolliver's vivid reminders, and a little excited by his presence, they eagerly exchanged with him their memories of a night half a century before.
Out of the half-spoken disjointed sentences Jane reconstructed the scene. The setting was
