“My bonny boy was stolen.  I never saw him dead; I never could go to his grave to put flowers there—­twenty years ago now he was taken from me, and I have had neither trace nor tidings of him.

“Hannah will tell you particulars, Primrose, for I cannot.  My trouble far surpassed the bitterness of death.  Only for you three, I could not have lived—­

     “Your mother,
     “Constance Mainwaring.”

Primrose had scarcely finished reading this letter, and had by no means taken in the full meaning of its contents, when light, soft footsteps paused outside the room, and she heard the handle of the door being very softly turned.

Cramming the letter into her pocket, and shutting the lid of the little cabinet, she ran and unlocked the door.  Jasmine was standing without.

“I looked for you everywhere, Primrose, and I did not mean really to disturb you here; I thought you might be here, and I tried the handle very softly, meaning to steal away again.  Are you very busy, Primrose?”

“I can come with you if you want me for anything, Jasmine,” answered Primrose, putting her hand to her head in a dazed sort of way.

Jasmine’s brow cleared, and her face grew bright instantly.

“It’s rather exciting,” she said; “I’m so glad you can come.  It is about Poppy Jenkins—­Poppy is downstairs—­she is going away—­she has come to say good-bye.  Do you know, Primrose, that she is actually going to London?”

Jasmine looked so delighted and eager that Primrose could not help smiling, and taking her sister’s hand, they ran downstairs together.

Poppy, who had very black eyes, cheeks with a brilliant color, and hair like a raven’s wing, was standing in the drawing-room twisting her apron strings and chatting volubly to Daisy.  She had known the girls all her life, and not only loved them dearly, but respected them much.  To Poppy Jenkins there never were three such beautiful and altogether charming young ladies as the Misses Mainwaring.

When Primrose appeared she dropped her a curtsey—­perhaps she respected Primrose the most, and loved her the least.

“It’s to say good-bye, miss,” she began, “I called in, hoping for last words with you three dear young ladies.  I is summoned to London, Miss Primrose.”

Nothing could exceed the air of modest pride with which Poppy made this declaration; she quite expected Primrose to be both startled and dazzled, and said afterwards that it was rather like a little stream of cold water trickling down her back when Miss Mainwaring replied quietly—­

“London is a long way off, Poppy—­why are you going there?”

“I has an aunt in the boarding-house way, Miss Primrose—­she keeps a very select establishment; and most particular; don’t admit no gentlemen.  It’s for ladies only, aunt’s boarding-house is, miss, and she wrote to mother that it’s a flourishing concern, and she wants a girl who will be honest, and handy, and country-bred, to help wait on the ladies.  She has offered the situation to me, miss, as in duty bound, I being her own niece, and mother is pleased to accept.  I calls it a dazzling prospect, Miss Primrose.”