In high good-humour, Mrs. Kirkpatrick made reply—“I don’t look as if I was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been a widow for seven months now; and not a grey hair on my head, though Lady Cuxhaven, who is younger than I, has ever so many.”

“Why do they call you ‘Clare’?” continued Molly, finding her so affable and communicative.

“Because I lived with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a pretty name, isn’t it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate, poor fellow; but he was of a very good family; and, if three of his relations had died without children, I should have been a baronet’s wife. But Providence did not see fit to permit it; and we must always resign ourselves to what is decreed. Two of his cousins married, and had large families; and poor dear Kirkpatrick died, leaving me a widow.”

“You have a little girl?” asked Molly.

“Yes: darling Cynthia! I wish you could see her; she is my only comfort now. If I have time, I will show you her picture when we come up to bed; but I must go now. It does not do to keep Lady Cumnor waiting a moment; and she asked me to be down early, to help with some of the people in the house. Now I shall ring this bell; and, when the housemaid comes, ask her to take you into the nursery, and to tell Lady Cuxhaven’s nurse who you are. And then you’ll have tea with the little ladies, and come in with them to dessert. There! I’m sorry you’ve overslept yourself, and are left here; but give me a kiss, and don’t cry—you really are rather a pretty child, though you’ve not got Cynthia’s colouring! Oh, Nanny, would you be so very kind as to take this young lady—(what’s your name, my dear? Gibson?)—Miss Gibson, to Mrs. Dyson, in the nursery, and ask her to allow her to drink tea with the young ladies there; and to send her in with them to dessert? I’ll explain it all to my lady.”

Nanny’s face brightened out of its gloom when she heard the name Gibson; and, having ascertained from Molly that she was “the doctor’s” child, she showed more willingness to comply with Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s request than was usual with her.

Molly was an obliging girl, and fond of children; so, as long as she was in the nursery, she got on pretty well, being obedient to the wishes of the supreme power, and even very useful to Mrs. Dyson, by playing at tricks, and thus keeping a little one quiet, while its brothers and sisters were being arrayed in gay attire—lace and muslin, and velvet, and brilliant broad ribbons.

“Now, miss,” said Mrs. Dyson, when her own especial charges were all ready, “what can I do for you? You have not got another frock here, have you?” No, indeed, she had not; nor, if she had had one, could it have been of a smarter nature than her present thick white dimity. So she could only wash-her face and hands, and submit to the nurse’s brushing and perfuming her hair. She thought she would rather have stayed in the park all night long, and slept under the beautiful quiet cedar, than have had to undergo the unknown ordeal of “going down to dessert,” which was evidently regarded both by children and nurses as the event of the day. At length there was a summons from a footman; and Mrs. Dyson, in a rustling silk gown, marshalled her convoy, and set sail for the dining-room door.

There was a large party of gentlemen and ladies sitting round the decked table, in the brilliantly-lighted room. Each dainty little child ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly had no one to go to.

“Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the children in the house, I think?”

The lady addressed put up her glass, gazed at Molly, and dropped it in an instant. “A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady Cuxhaven was inquiring for one to bring up with her little girls, that they might get a good accent early. Poor little woman, she looks wild and strange!” And the speaker, who sate next to Lord Cumnor, made a little sign to Molly to come to her; Molly crept up to her as to the first shelter; but, when the lady began talking to her in French, she blushed violently, and said in a very low voice—