“There, papa—are your ‘pistolets’ charged?” said she. “And there is some marmalade—just the same sort of marmalade we used to have at Bretton, and which you said was as good as if it had been conserved in Scotland——”

“And which your little ladyship used to beg for my boy. Do you remember that?” interposed Mrs. Bretton. “Have you forgotten how you would come to my elbow and touch my sleeve with the whisper, ‘Please, ma’am, something good for Graham—a little marmalade, or honey, or jam’?”

“No, mamma,” broke in Dr. John, laughing, yet reddening; “it surely was not so. I could not have cared for these things.”

“Did he or did he not, Paulina?”

“He liked them,” asserted Paulina.

“Never blush for it, John,” said Mr. Home encouragingly. “I like them myself yet, and always did. And Polly showed her sense in catering for a friend’s material comforts. It was I who put her into the way of such good manners; nor do I let her forget them.—Polly, offer me a small slice of that tongue.”

“There, papa; but remember you are only waited upon with this assiduity on condition of being persuadable, and reconciling yourself to La Terrasse for the day.”

“Mrs. Bretton,” said the count, “I want to get rid of my daughter—to send her to school. Do you know of any good school?”

“There is Lucy’s place—Madame Beck’s.”

“Miss Snowe is in a school?”

“I am a teacher,” I said, and was rather glad of the opportunity of saying this. For a little while I had been feeling as if placed in a false position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew my circumstances, but the count and his daughter did not. They might choose to vary by some shades their hitherto cordial manner towards me, when aware of my grade in society. I spoke, then, readily; but a swarm of thoughts I had not anticipated nor invoked rose dim at the words, making me sigh involuntarily. Mr. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-plate for about two minutes, nor did he speak. Perhaps he had not caught the words; perhaps he thought that on a confession of that nature politeness would interdict comment. The Scotch are proverbially proud; and homely as was Mr. Home in look, simple in habits and tastes, I have all along intimated that he was not without his share of the national quality. Was his a pseudo pride? Was it real dignity? I leave the question undecided in its wide sense. Where it concerned me individually I can only answer: then and always he showed himself a true-hearted gentleman.

By nature he was a feeler and a thinker. Over his emotions and his reflections spread a mellowing of melancholy—more than a mellowing: in trouble and bereavement it became a cloud. He did not know much about Lucy Snowe; what he knew, he did not very accurately comprehend. Indeed, his misconceptions of my character often made me smile. But he saw my walk in life lay rather on the shady side of the hill. He gave me credit for doing my endeavour to keep the course honestly straight; he would have helped me if he could. Having no opportunity of helping, he still wished me well. When he did look at me, his eye was kind; when he did speak, his voice was benevolent.

“Yours,” said he, “is an arduous calling. I wish you health and strength to win in it—success.”

His fair little daughter did not take the information quite so composedly. She fixed on me a pair of eyes wide with wonder—almost with dismay.

“Are you a teacher?” cried she. Then, having paused on the unpalatable idea, “Well, I never knew what you were, nor ever thought of asking; for me you were always Lucy Snowe.”