“Surely these must please her,” I said to myself, as I put the last saucerful on the table, and stepped back to see the result of my work.

“They certainly will, Janet,” said George Hammond, who had entered behind me.  “How well you have worked, and how pleasant everything looks!  Esther will be so much obliged to you.  She is just below, in the boat.  Will you not come with me and help her up the bank?”

But I hung back, bashful and frightened, while he called some of the men to his assistance, and, hurrying down to the river, landed the boat, and was presently seen walking toward the house with a lady leaning upon his arm.  I saw her from the window.  A tall, dignified woman, with a face—­yes, beautiful, certainly, for there were the regular features, the dark eyes, with their straight brows, the heavy, dark hair, parted over the fair, smooth forehead, but so quiet, so cold, so almost haughty, that my heart stood still with an undefined alarm.

She came in and sat down in one of the chairs without taking the least notice of me.  Mr. Hammond spoke,—­

“This is Janet Rainsford, my little friend that I told you of, Esther.  I hope you will be as good friends as we have been.  She will show you every beautiful place around the country, and make you acquainted with the people, too.”

Miss Hammond looked at me with a steadiness of gaze under which my eyes sank.

“I shall not trouble the young person much, since I shall only walk when you can go with me; and as for the people, it is not necessary for me to know them, I suppose.”

George Hammond bit his lip.

“Janet has taken great pains to put everything in order for us here.  I should hardly know the room, it is so improved since I left it this morning.”

“She is very kind,” said his sister, languidly; “but, George, how horribly this furniture is arranged,—­the sofa across the window, the centre-table in the corner!”

“Oh, you will have plenty of time to arrange it, Esther.  Come, let me show you your own room; you will want to rest while your Dutch girl—­what’s her name?  Catrine?—­gets us something to eat.”

Miss Hammond followed her brother to her room, while, mortified and angry with her, with myself, I escaped from the house, jumped into my skiff, and hardly stopped to breathe till I had reached my own little garret.  I flung myself on my bed, and burst into bitter tears of resentment and despair.  So, after all my pains, after my endeavors to improve myself, after all I had done, I was not worth the notice of a real lady.  I supposed I was an uncouth, awkward girl, disagreeable enough to her; she would not want to see me near her.  All I had done was miserable; it would have been better to let things alone.  I never would go near her again,—­that was certain,—­she should not be troubled by me;—­and my tears fell hot and fast upon my pillow.  Then came my old sullenness.  Why was she any better than I?