It is a life-size painting of a beautiful woman, in the queer, scant costume of the regency.

She wears a white satin frock and white satin slippers, and carries in her hand a bunch of white roses.

She appears to be coming down a flight of wide stairs; one foot is lifted for the descent, and the dark background, and the dim light in which it hangs, give to the illusion an almost startling reality.

It was her fancy to have the painting hung there to welcome all who entered her doors; and though it is now old-fashioned, and rather shabby and faded, no one of the present generation cares to order its removal.

All hold quietly to the opinion that "grandmother would not like it." In that quiet acre on the hillside, which holds the generations of the Sandals, she had been at rest for ten years.