“Afraid?  Not I, Joe.  Come along.  I couldn’t look quieter, not if I was to make up as I do in the evening as a Quakeress.  Come along.  Oh, Joe, it will be awful dull!  Don’t forget to send word to the hall that I am ill.  Afraid?  Not I!” She laughed, but rather hysterically.

There would be, however, she secretly considered, some excitement when it came to the finding out, which would happen, she was convinced, in a very few hours.  In fact, she had no faith at all in the story being accepted and believed by anybody; to be sure, she herself had been trained, as ladies in shops generally are, to mistrust all mankind, and she could not understand at all the kind of confidence which comes of having the very thing presented to you which you ardently desire.  When they arrived in Chester Square, she found waiting for her a lady, who was certainly not beautiful, but she had kind eyes, which looked eagerly at the strange face, and with an expression of disappointment.

“It can’t be the fringe,” thought Lotty.

“Cousin Clara,” she said softly and sweetly, as her husband had taught her, “I am Iris Deseret, the daughter of your old playfellow, Claude.”

“Oh, my dear, my dear,” cried Clara with enthusiasm, “come to my arms!  Welcome home again!”

She kissed and embraced her.  Then she held her by both hands, and looked at her face again.

“My dear,” she said, “you have been a long time coming.  I had almost given up hoping that Claude had any children.  But you are welcome, after all—­very welcome.  You are in your own house, remember, my dear.  This house is yours, and the plate, and furniture, and everything, and I am only your tenant.”

“Oh!” said Lotty, overwhelmed.  Why, she had actually been taken on her word, or rather the word of Joe.

“Let me kiss you again.  Your face does not remind me as yet, in any single feature, of your father’s.  But I dare say I shall find resemblance presently.  And indeed, your voice does remind me of him already.  He had a singularly sweet and delicate voice.”

“Iris has a remarkably sweet and delicate voice,” said Joe, softly.  “No doubt she got it from her father.  You will hear her sing presently.”

Lotty hardly knew her husband.  His face was preternaturally solemn, and he looked as if he was engaged in the most serious business of his life.

“All her father’s ways were gentle and delicate,” said Clara.

“Just like hers,” said Joe.  “When all of us—­American boys and girls, pretty rough at times—­were playing and larking about, Iris would be just sittin’ out like a cat on a carpet, quiet and demure.  I suppose she got that way, too, from her father.”

“No doubt; and as for your face, my dear, I dare say I shall find a likeness presently.  But just now I see none.  Will you take off your bonnet?”

When the girl’s bonnet was off, Clara looked at her again, curiously, but kindly.