"Oh, honey, look at this! John, it's beautiful!"

The sound of her voice woke me from a deep slumber. My first thought on seeing the girl was that Liza had returned. My mind soared. But I knew it could not be. My child, the last I was ever to bear, had long ago passed through the gate from which none return. This girl who'd roused me was older than Liza, with a stronger face and in the full blossom of womanhood. Her hair was what had played the cruel trick. It was uncanny, the same golden blond, the color of a field of wheat at its peak of ripeness, falling in waves to her waist.

"Oh ho!" The young man called John smiled a wicked grin at her as he bounced his hands on the bed, my bed. The original canopy still hung from its four carved posts, though by now the blue hydrangeas on a background of intertwined roses were a faded memory of their past glory, and the edges were tattered.

They hadn't seen me yet. Nobody ever does, not at first. My bed is always first, and then the walnut dresser on the far wall. Perhaps the washstand beside the door. I am always last. Some couples, even more self-absorbed than this young man and woman, come and go without ever seeing me. I'm not insulted, though it makes me sad.

He wrapped his arms around the girl, dragging her down to the bed.

"Cut it out, John!" She pushed him away and jumped up, though her voice was light with laughter. "We haven't even unpacked yet."

"I don't know where to start," he whined. "We'll be here for a one-night outing, and you brought enough stuff for a year."

She turned around slowly, scanning the room, stopping when her gaze fell on me. Alas, I could see from her face that I frightened her. Why is it so often thus? I'm an old woman, nothing to be afraid of.

"What a creepy painting. Look at those eyes." She leaned to the left, and then right. "They follow you around."

The young man stepped up to me and pressed his face nearly to mine before backing away. "I think it's kind of quaint. You know what I never got, though? I look at these ancient pictures and wonder how the human race survived. I mean, who would want to sleep with an old biddy like that? What guy could look at that kisser and get it up?"

For one ugly moment, I wished I could spit on him. Little did he know that I brought fourteen children into the world, and every one of them was a product of love. And pleasure. Still, I forgave him the insult. He was yet young and brimming with the ignorance of youth.

A knock sounded at the door. The couple turned as one when Catherine popped her head in. I always liked Catherine, because she appreciates old things, such as myself and my house. She takes good care of us. I wish I could take better care of her.

"How's your room, folks?"

The girl with the golden hair beamed, once more reminding me of my Liza.

"It's lovely," she said. "What a delightful old bed. They don't make canopied four-posters like this anymore."

"Indeed they don't. That bed was handmade by my great-grandfather, Eleazor Sampson. He did all the carving himself."

The girl ran her fingers over a post. I could tell by the look on her face that she appreciated my husband's fine work.

She pointed at me. "Is that picture anyone special?"

"Very." Catherine crossed the room to me and stroked my frame. "This is my great-grandmother, Nellie Sampson. I never met her, but I feel her presence, almost as if she lives in this painting. It used to hang in the hall, but when I bought her house and converted it into a B&B, I moved it to her bedroom and put it where she could see her bed." She snickered. "Eleazor and Nellie had fourteen kids. I get a lot of honeymoon couples staying here, and I always put them in this room so Nellie can watch over them. You'd be amazed how many write me later and say they had a baby exactly nine months after their night here. You may call me crazy, but I think the old girl has a hand in what goes on in her domain."

The man groaned. "Don't say that. We're not even married yet, and the last thing we want is a kid to come along."