“N-no,” said the lady, hesitatingly, “I guess we don’t want a governess.”

“Yes we do, ma, for Julia,” spoke up one of the young ladies, “the Burleighs have got one, and I’m bound they shan’t go ahead of us.  If they can afford one, we can.  Besides, it sounds more aristocratic.”

“But your father will never allow it,” replied mamma, anxiously, “he said only this morning that we must retrench.”

“Retrench,” responded the amiable daughter, scornfully, “don’t preach economy to me.  You know you can wheedle him out of anything, if you want to.  Its only your stinginess.  Besides, I want some assistance in my music.  You play, of course?” (turning abruptly to Clemence, who had been an astonished listener to this dialogue,) “will you give me a specimen of your style?”

Clemence obeyed this request that, savored more of a command, at once, and sat down tremblingly to the piano.  Music with her was almost a passion.  Indeed, in the old happy days, she had been often told that her voice and execution would win her both fame and wealth if she were to make her appearance before the public.  But the fond father had said “God forbid!  I could not lie quietly in my grave with my little home nestling the property of strangers.”  Clemence had not touched the keys of a piano since her own, a highly valued gift from the lost one, had been taken from her.  She felt nearly overcome by the memories that came crowding upon her, but the cold eyes of strangers were upon her, and pride came to her aid.  She began the prelude to a song that required great artistic skill and expression.  Her listeners sat in silence, while her very soul floated away on the waves of melody.  When she had finished, there was astonishment depicted on every face.

“Good enough for the stage; might make a fortune with that pretty face,” came from the sofa where the representative of masculine humanity reclined.

“Harry, my son!” mildly remonstrated the mother.

“Where were you last employed, Miss—­what may I call your name?”

Clemence supplied the missing cognomen, and replied truthfully, that this was her first attempt to obtain such a position.

“You have references, of course?”

She looked aghast.  Inexperienced Clemence!  The thought had not, until this moment, occurred to her.  She hesitated.  There were many who knew her well as the only daughter of Grosvenor Graystone, who could not remember the widow’s daughter.  There was no one whom she could think of in her bewilderment to refer to as a friend, none of her former haughty friends who would not think it an unpardonable liberty.

A stranger, with no references.  That settled the question at once.  The mother of young daughters could not be too careful in regard to the character of the persons she employed around them.  A knowledge of their pedigree was an absolute necessity.  The idea of an adventuress stealing into the household, and perhaps laying snares to entrap the son and heir, could not be thought of for a moment.