CHAPTER II.

CAPTAIN WRAGGE stopped nearly midway in the one little row of houses composing Rosemary Lane, and let himself and his guest in at the door of his lodgings with his own key.  As they entered the passage, a care-worn woman in a widow’s cap made her appearance with a candle.  “My niece,” said the captain, presenting Magdalen; “my niece on a visit to York.  She has kindly consented to occupy your empty bedroom.  Consider it let, if you please, to my niece—­and be very particular in airing the sheets?  Is Mrs. Wragge upstairs?  Very good.  You may lend me your candle.  My dear girl, Mrs. Wragge’s boudoir is on the first floor; Mrs. Wragge is visible.  Allow me to show you the way up.”

As he ascended the stairs first, the care-worn widow whispered, piteously, to Magdalen, “I hope you’ll pay me, miss.  Your uncle doesn’t.”

The captain threw open the door of the front room on the first floor, and disclosed a female figure, arrayed in a gown of tarnished amber-colored satin, seated solitary on a small chair, with dingy old gloves on its hands, with a tattered old book on its knees, and with one little bedroom candle by its side.  The figure terminated at its upper extremity in a large, smooth, white round face—­like a moon—­encircled by a cap and green ribbons, and dimly irradiated by eyes of mild and faded blue, which looked straightforward into vacancy, and took not the smallest notice of Magdalen’s appearance, on the opening of the door.

“Mrs. Wragge!” cried the captain, shouting at her as if she was fast asleep.  “Mrs. Wragge!”

The lady of the faded blue eyes slowly rose to an apparently interminable height.  When she had at last attained an upright position, she towered to a stature of two or three inches over six feet.  Giants of both sexes are, by a wise dispensation of Providence, created, for the most part, gentle.  If Mrs. Wragge and a lamb had been placed side by side, comparison, under those circumstances, would have exposed the lamb as a rank impostor.

“Tea, captain?” inquired Mrs. Wragge, looking submissively down at her husband, whose head, when he stood on tiptoe, barely reached her shoulder.

“Miss Vanstone, the younger,” said the captain, presenting Magdalen.  “Our fair relative, whom I have met by fortunate accident.  Our guest for the night.  Our guest!” reiterated the captain, shouting once more as if the tall lady was still fast asleep, in spite of the plain testimony of her own eyes to the contrary.

A smile expressed itself (in faint outline) on the large vacant space of Mrs. Wragge’s countenance.  “Oh?” she said, interrogatively.  “Oh, indeed?  Please, miss, will you sit down?  I’m sorry—­no, I don’t mean I’m sorry; I mean I’m glad—­” she stopped, and consulted her husband by a helpless look.

“Glad, of course!” shouted the captain.

“Glad, of course,” echoed the giantess of the amber satin, more meekly than ever.