about the house, or in the cellar, or possibly in the garden.
“If you should happen to find it, Phoebe,” said Hepzibah, glancing aside at her with a grim yet kindly smile, “we will tie up the shop-bell for good and all!”
“Yes, dear cousin,” answered Phoebe; “but, in the mean time, I hear somebody ringing it!”
When the customer was gone, Hepzibah talked rather vaguely, and at great length, about a certain Alice Pyncheon, who had been exceedingly beautiful and accomplished in her lifetime, a hundred years ago.
The fragrance of her rich and delightful character still lingered about the place where she had lived, as a dried rosebud scents the drawer where it has withered and