The first memory that comes to me is of my beautiful young mother; the mention of her name brings me the vision of a fair face with hair of bright gold, and deep, large, blue eyes; of soft silken dresses, from the folds of which came the sweetest perfume; of fine trailing laces, fine as the intricate work of a spider’s web; of white hands, always warm and soft, and covered with sparkly rings; of a sweet, low voice, that was like the cooing of a dove.  All these things come back to me as I write the word “mother.”  My father, Sir Roland Tayne, was a hearty, handsome, pleasure-loving man.  No one ever saw him dull, or cross, or angry; he was liberal, generous, and beloved.

He worships my beautiful young mother, and he worshiped me.  Every one said I was the very image of mama.  I had the same golden hair and deep-blue eyes; the same shaped face and hands.  I remember that my mother—­that sweet young mother—­never walked steadily when she was out with me.  It was as though she could not help dancing like a child.

“Come along, baby darling,” she would say to me, “let us get away from them all, and have a race.”

She called me “baby” until I was nearly six—­for no other came to take my place.  I heard the servants speak of me, and say what a great heiress I would be in the years to come, if my father had no sons; but I hardly understood, and cared still less.

As I grew older I worshipped my beautiful mother, she was so very kind to me.  I always felt that she was so pleased to see me.  She never gave me the impression that I was tiresome, or intruded on her.  Sometimes her toilet would be finished before the dinner-bell rang, then she would come to the nursery and ask for me.  We walked up and down the long picture gallery, where the dead, and gone Ladies Tayne looked at us from the walls.  No face there was so fair as my mother’s.  She was more beautiful than a picture, with her golden hair and fair face, her sweeping dresses and trailing laces.

The tears rise even now, hot and bitter, to my eyes when I think of those happy hours—­my intense pride in and devoted love for my mother.  How lightly I held her hand, how I kissed her lovely trailing laces.

“Mamma,” I said to her, one day, “it is just like coming to heaven when you call me to walk with you.”

“You will know a better heaven some day,” she said, laughingly; “but I have not known it yet.”

What was there she did not do?  She sang until the music seemed to float round the room; she drew and painted, and she danced.  I have seen no one like her.  They said she was like an angel in the house; so young, so fair, so sweet—­so young, yet, in her wise, sweet way, a mother and friend to the whole household.  Even the maids, when they had done anything wrong and feared the housekeeper, would ask my mother to intercede for them.

If she saw a servant who had been crying, she did not rest until she knew the cause of the tears.  If it were a sick mother, then money and wine would be dispatched.  I have heard since that even if their love affairs went wrong, it was always “my lady” who set them right, and many a happy marriage took place from Tayne Abbey.