“I am happy, madam,” said Mr Brandon, in his most courteous manner, “that that day is past.”

“My staying won’t do you any good,” said the old lady, whose purple sun-bonnet seemed to heave with the uprisal of her hair, “except, perhaps, to get you a better meal than the servants would have given you.  But I want a lawyer, and I can’t afford to pay for one either, and when I saw you coming I just made up my mind to get something out of you, and if I do it, it’ll be the first red mark for my side of the family.”

Mr Brandon assured her that nothing would give him more pleasure than to assist her in any way in his power.

“Very well, then,” said Mrs Keswick, “just sit down on that bench, and, when we have got through, your horse can be taken, and you can rest a while, though it seems a very curious thing that you should want to stop here to rest.”

“Well, madam,” said Mr Brandon, seating himself as comfortably as possible on a wooden bench, “I shall be happy to hear anything you have to say.”

The old lady did not sit down, but stood up in front of him, leaning on her umbrella, with which faithful companion she had been about to set out on her walk.  “When my son Junius came home a while ago—­” she began.

“Do you still call him your son?” interrupted Mr Brandon.

“Indeed I do!” was the very prompt answer.  “That’s just what he is.  And, as I was going to say, when he wrote me a short time ago that he was coming here, I believed, from his letter, that he had some scheme on hand in regard to your niece, and I made up my mind I wouldn’t stay in the house to hear anything more said on that subject.  I had told him that I never wanted him to say another word about it; and it made my blood boil, sir, to think that he had come again to try to cozen me into the vile compact.”

“Madam!” exclaimed Mr Brandon.

“The next day,” continued Mrs Keswick, “a lady arrived; and as soon as I saw her drive into the gate I felt sure it was Roberta March, and that the two had hatched up a plot to come and work on my feelings, and so I wouldn’t come near the house.”

“Madam!” exclaimed Mr Brandon, “how could you dream such a thing of my niece?  You don’t know her, madam.”

“No,” said the old lady, “I don’t know her, but I knew she belonged to your family, and so I was not to be surprised at anything she did.  But I found out I was mistaken.  An old negro woman recognized this young person as the daughter of my younger sister you know there were three of us.  The child was born and raised here, but I have not seen and have scarcely heard of her since she was eight years old.”

“That’s very extraordinary, madam,” said Mr Brandon.

“No, it isn’t, when you consider the stubbornness, the obstinacy, and the wickedness of some people.  My sister sickened when the child was about six years old, and her husband, Harvey Peyton—­”