At the distance from which we regard her, Time seems to have
dealt very kindly with her. The figure is quite the same, the style the
same, the face the same, and you see no gray hairs. In short, you behold
our old friend Arabella, slightly exaggerated, perhaps--but it is she.
She leaves her room, and prepares to descend.
As she passes to the top of the staircase, a faint voice exclaims:
'Mamma!'
Mrs. Meeker stops with an expression of impatience, turns, and enters
the adjoining apartment.
On a sort of couch or ottoman reclines a young lady, who, you can
perceive at a glance, is a victim of consumption.
It is their oldest child, who for five years has been an invalid, and
whose strength of late has been fast declining. One can hardly say how
she would have looked in health, for disease is a fearful ravager.
Still, Harriet (she is named for Mr. Meeker's mother) probably resembled
her own mother more than any one else in personal appearance, but beyond
that there was no resemblance whatever. Neither was she like her father,
but more like her grandfather Meeker, of whom her uncle says she always
reminds him. She possesses a kind and happy nature; and since she was
stricken by the terrible malady, she has grown day by day more gentle
and more heavenly, as her frame has been gradually weakened under its
insidious inroads.
When Mrs. Meeker came in, she demanded, in an irritated tone, 'What do
you want, Harriet?'
'I wish very much, mamma, you would send and ask Uncle Frank if he will
not come and see me to-day.
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