“Cora, love, it is not yet eleven o’clock, though the dear master did send us off to bed.  But I wanted to speak to you, darling Cora, just a few words, dear, before we part for the night; so when I met my old friend, Aunt Martha, in the hall, I asked her to show me which was your room, so I could come to you when you should come up; but Aunt Martha told me she was on the way to your room to prepare your bed for the night, and she would bring me here to sit down and wait for you.  So here I am, dear Cora.”

“You wished to speak to me, you say?” inquired Mrs. Rothsay, drawing another chair and seating herself before the fire.

“Yes, darling; only to say this, love, that I have not come here to sponge upon your kindness.  I will be no drone.  I wish to be useful to you, Cora.  Now you are far away from all milliners and dress makers and seamstresses, and I am very skillful with my needle and can do everything you might wish to have done in that line—­I mean in the way of trimming and altering bonnets or dresses.  I do not think I could cut and fit.”

“Mrs. Stillwater,” interrupted Cora, “you are our guest, and you must not think of such a plan as you suggest.”

“Oh, my dear Cora, do not speak to me as if I were only company.  I, your old governess!  Do not make a stranger of me.  Let me be as one of the family.  Let me be useful to you and to your dear grandfather.  Then I shall feel at home; then I shall be happy,” pleaded Rose.

“But, Mrs. Stillwater, we have not been accustomed to set our guests to work.  The idea is preposterous,” said the inexorable Cora.

“Oh, my dear, do not treat me as a guest.  Treat me as you did when I was your governess.  Make me useful; will you not, dear Cora?”

“You are very kind, but I would rather not trouble you.”

“Ah, I see; you are tired and sleepy.  I will not keep you up, but I must make myself useful to you in some way.  Well, good night, dear,” said the widow, as she stooped and kissed her hostess.  Then she left the room.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SPELL WORKS.

Rose Stillwater was very near overdoing her part.  She rose early the next morning and came down in the drawing room before any of the family had put in an appearance.  She had scarcely seated herself before the bright little sea coal fire that the chilly spring morning rendered very acceptable, if not really necessary, when she heard the heavy, measured footsteps of the master of the house coming down the stairs.  Then she rose impulsively as if in a flutter of delight to go and meet him; but checked herself and sat down and waited for him to come in.

“How heavily the old ogre walks!  His step would shake the house, if it could be shaken.  He comes like the statue of the commander in the opera.”

She listened, but his footsteps died away on the soft, deep carpet of the library into which he passed.