With these determined words he gave his sister his arm, and walked with her through the grounds to the road where her cousin was waiting for her.

Lucy found Mrs. Wilson in the hall.  “Come into the library, Mrs. Wilson,” said she; “I have only just heard you were here.  Won’t you sit down?  Are you not well, Mrs. Wilson?  You tremble.  You are fatigued, I fear.  Pray compose yourself.  May I ring for a glass of wine for you?”

“No, no, Miss Lucy,” said the woman, smiling; “it is only along of you coming to me so sudden, and you so grown.  Eh! sure, can this fine young lady be the little girl I held in my lap but t’other day, as it seems?”

There was an agitation and ardor about Mrs. Wilson that, coupled with the flaming bonnet, made Miss Fountain uneasy.  She thought Mrs. Wilson must be a little cracked, or at least flighty.

“Pray compose yourself, madam,” said she, soothingly, but with that dignity nobody could assume more readily than she could.  “I dare say I am much grown since I last had the pleasure of seeing you; but I have not outgrown my memory, and I am happy to receive you, or any of our old servants that knew my dear mother.”

“Then I must not look for a welcome,” said Mrs. Wilson, with feminine logic, “for I was never your servant, nor your mamma’s.”  Lucy opened her eyes, and her face sought an explanation.

“I never took any money for what I gave you, so how could I be a servant?  To see me a dangling of my heels in your hall so long, one would say I was a servant; but I am not a servant, nor like to be, please God, unless I should have the ill luck to bury my two boys, as I have their father.  So perhaps the best thing I can do, miss, is to drop you my courtesy and walk back as I came.”  The Amazon’s manner was singularly independent and calm, but the tell-tale tears were in the large gray honest eyes before she ended.

Lucy’s natural penetration and habit of attending to faces rather than words came to her aid.  “Wait a minute, Mrs. Wilson,” said she; “I think there is some misunderstanding here.  Perhaps the fault is mine.  And yet I remember more than one nursery-maid that was kind enough to me; but I have heard nothing of them since.”

“Their blood is not in your veins as mine is, unless the doctors have lanced it out.”

“I never was bled in my life, if you mean that, madam.  But I must ask you to explain how I can possibly have the—­the advantage of possessing your blood in my veins.”

Mrs. Wilson eyed her keenly.  “Perhaps I had better tell you the story from first to last, young lady,” said she quietly.

“If you please,” said the courtier, mastering a sigh; for in Mrs. Wilson there was much that promised fluency.