They grew to liking each other rapidly, Marian and Katy, the latter of whom thought her new friend greatly out of place as a dressmaker, telling her she ought to marry some rich man, calling her Marian altogether, and questioning her very closely of her previous life.  But Marian only told her that she was born in London; that she learned her trade on the Isle of Wight, near to the Osborne House, where the royal family sometimes came, and that she had often seen the present Queen, thus trying to divert Katy’s mind from asking what there was besides that apprenticeship to the Misses True on the Isle of Wight.  Once, indeed, she went further, learning that Marian’s friends were dead; that she had come to America in hopes of doing better than she could at home; that she had stayed in New York until her health began to fail, and then had tried what country air would do, coming to North Silverton because a young woman who worked in the same shop was acquainted there, and recommended the place.  This was all Katy could learn, and Marian’s heart history, if she had one, was guarded carefully.  One day as they sat together alone, when Helen had gone to the village to do some shopping for Katy, Marian abruptly said:  “I have lived in New York, you know, and why do you not ask if I ever saw these Camerons?”

“You! did you?—­have you, really?—­and what are they like?” Katy almost screamed, skipping across the floor and seating herself by Marian, who replied:  “Much like other ladies of their stamp—­proud and fashionable.  The father I never saw, but your Mr. Cameron I used to see in the street driving his handsome bays.”

Anything relating to the pride and fashion of her future relations made Katy uncomfortable, and she remained silent, cutting into bits a piece of silk, until Marian continued:  “Sometimes there was a child in the Cameron carriage.  Do you know who it was?”

Delighted that she too could impart information, Katy hastened to say that it was probably “little Jamie, the orphan grandchild, whose parents died in Italy.  Morris told me he met them in Paris, and he said Jamie’s father died of consumption, and the mother, too, either then or afterward.  At all events Jamie is an orphan and a cripple.  He will never walk, Morris says; and he told me so much about him—­how patient he was and how good.”

Katy did not see the tears which threatened to mar the silk on which Marian Hazelton was working, for they were brushed away almost as quickly as they came, while in her usual voice she asked:  “What was the cause of his lameness?”

“I don’t know just how it happened,” Katy replied, “but believe it resulted from the carelessness of a servant in leaving him alone, or something.”

“A servant!” Marian repeated, a flush rising to her cheek and a strange light flashing on her eye.