Mrs. C.N. The poor give you no such severe character, madam; and, taking courage by their report, and being poor myself, and, alas! having been the innocent cause of making others poor, I have ventured hither.

Susan [aside]. Oh, I wish she wouldn’t!  I can’t stand this.  There’s something in her face, too, that reminds me—­but there! have I not promised my husband to be brutal and unfeeling? [Aloud] Madame, I am sorry, but I have noting for you.  Mr. Noke, mai husband, he tell me dat hees nephew is very foolish, weeked jeune homme—­

Mrs. C.N. [interrupting]. Foolish, madam, he may have been, nay, he was, to fall in love with a poor orphan like myself, who had nothing to give him but my love,—­but not wicked.  He has a noble heart.  His sorrow is not upon his own account, but for his wife and child.  He has bent his proud spirit twice to entreat his uncle’s forgiveness, but in vain.  And now I have come to appeal to you,—­though you are not of my own country,—­a woman to a woman.

Susan [aside]. Dear heart alive!  I’m melting like a tallow candle.

Mrs. C.N. I was a poor Berkshire curate’s daughter—­

Susan [interrupting hastily]. A what? [Recollecting herself.] A poor cure’s daughter—­yas, yas—­in Berkishire, qu’est-ce que c’est Berkishire?

Mrs. C.N. It is in the south of England, madam.  We were poor, I say, and I had been used to straits, even before my poor father died.  But my husband has been always accustomed to luxury and comfort, and now that poverty has come suddenly upon us—­

Susan [interrupting with emotion, but still speaking broken English.] Were you considaired like your fader?

Mrs. C.N. Yes, madam, very like.

Susan [anxiously and tremblingly]. What was his name?

Mrs. C.N. Woodward, madam.  He was curate of Salthill, near Eton.

Susan [throwing herself at her feet and kissing her hands]. Why, you’re Miss Clara! and I’m Susan,—­Susan Montem, to whom he was so kind and noble [sobbing].  I’m no more a Montmorenci than you are,—­nor half as much.  I’m a workhouse orphan, and—­and—­your aunt by marriage. [Aside, and clasping her hands].  Oh, what can I do to help them? what can I do?

Mrs. C.N. [fervently]. I thank heaven.  There is genuine gratitude in your kind face.  I remember you now, though I am sure I should never have recognized you, Susan.

Susan. I dare say not, Miss Clara [rising and wiping her eyes].  Fine feathers make fine birds.  Lor, how I should like to have a talk with you about old times!  But there, we’ve got something else to do first.  Where’s your good husband?

Mrs. C.N. In the garden, hiding in the laurel-bed, with Chickabiddy.  That’s our baby, you know.