to her as Edmund’s wife, in spite of his queer miserly ways, ran again lightly through a mind that often harboured such dreams before—­in vain.  Her brow cleared.  She made Thyrza leave the curtains, and sit down to gossip with her.  And Thyrza, though perfectly conscious, as the daughter of a hard-working race, that to sit gossiping at midday was a sinful thing, was none the less willing to sin; and she chattered on in a Westmoreland dialect that grew steadily broader as she felt herself more at ease, till Mrs. Melrose could scarcely follow her.

But she managed to seize on the facts that concerned her.  Lady Tatham, it seemed, was a widow, with an only boy, a lad of seven, who was the heir to Duddon Castle, and its great estates.  The Castle was ten miles from the Tower.

“How shall I ever get there?” thought Mrs. Melrose, despairingly.

As to other neighbours, they seemed to consist entirely of an old bachelor doctor, about three miles away, and the clergyman of Gimmers Wick and his wife. She was sure to come.  But most people were “glad to see the back on her.”  She had such a poor spirit, and was always complaining.

In the midst of this conversation, the door of the room, which was ajar, slowly opened.  Thyrza looked round and saw in the aperture a tiny white figure.  It was the Melrose baby, standing silent, wide-eyed, with its fingers in its mouth, and Anastasia behind it.  Anastasia, whose look was still thunderous, explained that she was unpacking and could not do with it.  The child toddled in to its mother, and Thyrza exclaimed in admiration: 

“Oh, you are a little beauty!”

And she caught up one of the brass curtain rings lying on the table, and tried to attract the baby with it.  But the little thing took not the smallest notice of the lure.  She went straight to her mother, and, leaning against Netta’s knee, she turned to stare at Thyrza with an intensity of expression, rare in a child so young.  Thyrza, kneeling on the floor, stared back—­fascinated.  She thought she had never seen anything so lovely.  The child had her father’s features, etherealized; and great eyes, like her mother, but far more subtly beautiful.  Her skin was pale, but of such a texture that Thyrza’s roses-and-milk looked rough and common beside it.  Every inch of the proud little head was covered with close short curls leaving the white neck free, and the hand lifted to her mouth was of a waxen delicacy.

Netta opened a picture-book that Anastasia had brought down with her.  Felicia pushed it away.  Netta opened it again.  Then the child, snatching it from her, sat down on the floor, and, before Netta could prevent her, tore one of the pages across with a quick, vindictive movement—­her eyes sparkling.

“Naughty—! naughty!” said Netta in a scolding voice.

But Thyrza dropped her hand hastily into a gray calico pocket tied round her waist, and again held out something.