“Oh, mother! poor mother!” Bessie moaned, as she covered her face with her hands, feeling that her shame was greater than she could bear.

Going to the door she closed it, and so did not hear Mrs. Browne when she said next: 

“She had a lovely daughter, though, with a face like an angel.  I’d swear she was all right.  Do you ever hear from her?”

For a moment Miss Betsey hesitated, for it was not a part of her plan to let Mrs. Browne or any one see Bessie just yet; but her love for the naked truth prevailed, and she replied: 

“Yes, she is here.  She came yesterday in the Germanic.  I will call her.”

“Crying?  What’s that for?” she said to Bessie as she entered the room, and feeling almost as guilty as if she had been caught in some wrong act, Bessie sobbed:  “The door was open at first, and I knew it was Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, whom I have seen at Stoneleigh.  I heard what she said of mamma, and oh, auntie, I am her daughter, and she is dead, and she was good at the last!”

In her sympathy for Bessie, Miss McPherson was even ready to do battle for Daisy, and she replied: 

“Mrs. Browne is a fool, and Allen is a bigger one, and Lord Hardy biggest of all.  Don’t cry.  She wants to see you.  Wash your face, and take off your apron and come down.”

Five minutes later Bessie was shaking hands with Mrs. Browne, who told her “she did not look very stubbed, that was a fact—­that she guessed seasickness had not agreed with her, and she’d better keep herself swaddled up in flannel for a spell till she got used to the climate, which was not like England.”

“You come in the Germanic, your aunt tells me,” she continued, as Bessie took a seat beside her.  “Then you must have seen Miss Lucy Grey and her nephew, for they were on that ship, and I hear were met by somebody sent from Boston to tell ’em to come right on, for Miss Jerrold was very sick.”

Bessie felt rather than saw the questioning eyes which her aunt flashed upon her, and her face was scarlet as she answered: 

“Yes, I saw Miss Grey.  She was very kind to me when I was sick.  She did go directly to Boston.”

“What is the matter with Mrs. Jerrold?” Miss Betsey asked, and Mrs. Browne replied: 

“The land only knows.  Heart complaint, the last report, I believe.  I saw Hannah at the depot this morning; she’d been sent for, too.  Geraldine always wants her when she’s sick; but the minit she is better, the old maid sister is in the way, and not good enough for my lady’s fine friends.  I know Geraldine Jerrold pretty well, and if I’s Hannah I wouldn’t run to every beck and call, when nothing under the sun ails her but hypo.  She has had everything, I do believe—­malary, cancers, spinal cords, nervous prostration, and now it’s her heart.  Humbug!  More like hysterics.  Burton Jerrold has got his hands full, and I pity him.  Why, he looks like an old, broken-down man, and his hair is as white as snow.”