“Oh, Sir Roland!” she cried, “you could not suppose that I thought of such a thing!  I assure you I am quite incapable of it.  I thought only of dear Lady Tayne.”

And she seemed so distressed, so concerned and anxious that my father hardly knew how to reassure her.  She explained and protested until at last, and with something of impatience, he said: 

“I will speak to Lady Tayne about it this morning.”  I knew he felt in want of some kind of moral support when he took my hand and said, in would-be careless words:  “Come with me, Laura, to see mamma.”

And we went, hand-in-hand, to my mother’s room.  There, after the usual loving greetings had been exchanged, my father broached the subject which evidently perplexed and sadly worried him.  Broached it ever so gently, but I, who knew every look and trick of my mother’s face, saw how deeply pained she was.  She never attempted to interrupt him, but when he had finished speaking—­having passed over very lightly indeed the little domestic matters which had gone wrong since my mother’s illness, dwelling principally upon the benefit that would most probably accrue if a younger housekeeper were engaged—­my mother declined to do anything of the kind.

“My dear Roland,” she said, “it would literally break my heart; think what a faithful old servant she has been.”

“That is just it,” said my father; “she is too old—­too old, Miss Reinhart thinks, to do her work well.”

There is a moment’s silence.

“Miss Reinhart thinks so,” said my mother, in those clear, gentle tones I knew so well; “but then, Roland, what can Miss Reinhart know about our household matters?”

That question puzzled him, for I believe that he himself was quite unconscious how or to what extent he was influenced by my governess.

“I should think,” he replied, “that she must have noticed the little disasters and failures.  She is only anxious to spare you trouble and help you.”

“That would not help me, sending away an attached and faithful old servant like Mrs. Eastwood and putting a stranger in her place.”

“But if the stranger should be more efficient of the two, what then, Beatrice?”

“I do not care about that,” she said, plaintively.  “Mrs. Eastwood could have an assistant—­that would be better.  You see, Roland, I am so accustomed to her, she knows all my ways, and sends me just what I like.  I am so thoroughly accustomed to her I could not bear a stranger.”

“But, my darling, the stranger would never come near you,” said my father.

“Mrs. Eastwood does,” said my mother.  “You do not know, Roland, when my maid and nurse are tired she often comes to sit with me in the dead of night, and we can talk about old times, even before you were born.  She tells me about your mother and you when you were a little boy.  I should not like to lose her.  Miss Reinhart does not understand.”