“No, and never will,” I replied, with all a child’s pride in a mother’s courage.

“I thought as much,” she said, with a peculiar smile.  “Lady Tayne has plenty of sense.”

“She has plenty of patience,” I replied, “and plenty of opportunity of exercising it.”

“So much the better,” replied Miss Reinhart, and then we resumed our lessons.

It was soon all over with the old servants.  I wonder that my father, so sensible, so keen in other matters, could not see that her sole ambition was to have every person in the house under her control.  One by one the old servants disappeared—­there was some fault or other with each one—­and my father grew more passive at each attack, and made less resistance; he was so deeply impressed with the fact that every change resulted in greater comfort for himself.

One morning when, by some rare chance, I was left alone with Sir Roland, and the faces of strange servants passed in and out: 

“Papa,” I said, “we have great changes in the house.”

“Yes,” he replied, brightly; “and so far as I can see, they have conduced greatly to our benefit.”

“I want you to grant me one favor, papa—­will you?”

“Certainly, my Laura,” he replied.  “Why, what does this mean?” for I had thrown myself in his arms with passionate tears—­“what is this, Laura?”

“I want you to promise me,” I said, “that, whatever changes go on, you will not let any one send mamma’s maid, Patience, away?”

He looked dreadfully shocked.

“Your mother’s maid, child?” he said.  “Why, who dare even suggest such a thing?  Certainly not.  The whole household is constructed with a view to your mother’s happiness.”

So she had told him, and so he believed.  It was quite useless talking; he did not see, he did not, indeed.

I knew Emma disliked her and Patience, too.  The farce of her being my mother’s companion was very soon played out.  She never came near, unless my father went, and then she did not remain long.  But—­and we, the three who loved her, noted it with dismay—­every day Miss Reinhart became more of a companion to my father.  She ingratiated herself by degrees.  At first it had been merely his breakfast, afterward she offered her services over his letters; she answered many of them in a clear, legible hand that pleased him, because it was so easily read.  Then his accounts.  I went in several times and found them seated at the table, side by side, with papers, ledgers and books, yet not so deeply engrossed but that every now and then they had a jest and a merry laugh.

Did he think of my mother during those hours?  Did her pale, sweet, wistful face ever come between him and that beautiful woman?

Then I noticed that he would say to her: 

“Come out for a few minutes, Miss Reinhart, out on the terrace here, and let us have some fresh air.  If you will permit me, I will smoke my cigar.  Will you come, Laura?”