“None at all.”

“Not even in Mrs. Laudersdale’s instance?”

“Mrs. Laudersdale has a sweet tooth, then?” Mr. Raleigh asked in return, as if there were any trivial thing concerning her in which he could yet be instructed.

“I’m not going to tell you anything about Mrs. Laudersdale.”

“There comes that desired object, the tea-tray.  It’s not to be formal, then, to-night.  That’s a blessing!  What shall I bring you?” he continued,—­“tea or cocoa?”

“Neither.  You may have the tea, and I’ll leave the cocoa for Mrs. Laudersdale.”

“Mrs. Laudersdale drinks cocoa, then?”

“You may bring me some milk and macaroons.”

As Mr. Raleigh was about to obey, his little apparition of the wood suddenly appeared in the doorway, followed by her nurse,—­having arisen from the discipline of bath and brush, fair and spotless as a snowflake.  She flitted by him with a mocking recognition.

“Rite!” cried a voice from above, familiar, but with how strange a tone in it!  “Little Rite!”

“Maman!” cried the sprite, and went dancing up the stairs.

Mr. Raleigh’s face, as he turned, darkened with a heavier flush than half a score of Indian summers branded upon it afterward.

“That is Mrs. Laudersdale’s little maid?” asked he, when, after a few moments, he brought the required salver.

“Yes,—­would you ever suspect it?” Numberless as had been the times he had heard her speak of Rite, he never had suspected it, but had always at the name pictured some indifferent child, some baby-friend, or cousin by courtesy.

“She is not like her mother,” said he, coolly.

“The very antipodes,—­all her father.—­Bless me!  What is this?  A real Laudersdale mess,—­custards and cheesecakes,—­and I detest them both.”

“Blame my unfortunate memory.  I thought I had certainly pleased you, Miss Helen.”

“When you forgot my orders?  Well, never mind.  Isn’t she exquisite?”

“Isn’t who exquisite?  Oh, the little maid?  Quite!  Why hasn’t she been here all summer?”

“She was always a sickly, ailing thing, and has been at one of those rich Westchester farms where health and immortality are made.  And now she is going away to Martinique, where her grandmother will take charge of her, bottle up those spirits, and make her a second edition of her mother.  By the way, how that mother has effervesced this summer!” continued Helen, as the detested custard disappeared.  “I wonder what made her.  Do you suppose it was because her husband was away?”

At that instant Mrs. Laudersdale came sailing down the stairs.