When their effusiveness had a little calmed, down, when Mrs. Dundas had caressed her child—­which poor Mrs. Birkett gave up to her with tears—­and Mr. Dundas had also taken it in his arms and called it “Little Miss Dundas” and “My own little Fina” tenderly—­when, the servants had been spoken to prettily and the bustle had somewhat subsided, Mrs. Dundas looked round for something missing.  “And where is dear Leam?” she asked with her gracious air and sweet smile.

It was very nice of her to be the first to miss the girl.  The father had forgotten her, friends had overlooked her, but the stepmother, the traditional oppressor, was thoughtful of her, and wanted to include her in the love afloat.  This little circumstance made a deep impression on the three witnesses.  It was a good omen for Leam, and promised what indeed her new mother did honestly design to perform.

“Even that little savage must be tamed by such persistent sweetness,” said Mr. Birkett to his wife, while she, with a kindly half-checked sigh, true to her central quality of maternity and love of peace all round, breathed “Poor little Leam!” compassionately.

Leam, however, was no more to the fore at the home-coming than she had been at the marriage, and much searching went on before she was found.  She was unearthed at last.  The gardener had seen her shrink away into the shrubbery when the carriage-wheels were heard coming up the road, and he gave information to the cook, by whom the truant was tracked and brought to her ordeal.

Mrs. Birkett went out by the French window to meet her as she came slowly up the lawn draped in the deep mourning which for the very contrariety of love she had made deeper since the marriage, her young head bent to the earth, her pale face rigid with despair, her heart full of but one feeling, her brain racked with but one thought, “Mamma is crying in heaven:  mamma must not cry, and this stranger must be swept from her place.”

She did not know how this was to be done; she only knew that it must be done.  She had all along expected the saints to work some miracle of deliverance for her, and she looked hourly for its coming.  She had prayed to them so passionately that she could not understand why they had not answered.  Still, she trusted them.  She had told them she was angry, and that she thought them cruel for their delay; and in her heart she believed that they knew they had done wrong, and that the miracle would be wrought before too late.  It was for mamma, not for herself.  Madame must be swept like a snake out of the house, that mamma might no longer be pained in heaven.  Personally, it made no difference whether she had to see madame at Lionnet or here at home, but it made all the difference to mamma, and that was all for which she cared.