“The very best thing for me, dearest,” was the answer, now given in her own calm tones.  “It does truly make me happier than anything else.  No, don’t look doubtful, my Henrietta; if it were repining it might hurt me, but I trust it is not.”

“And does this really comfort you, mamma?” said Henrietta, as she pressed the spring, and gazed thoughtfully on the portrait.  “O, I cannot fancy that! the more I think, the more I try to realize what it might have been, think what Uncle Geoffrey is to Beatrice, till sometimes, O mamma, I feel quite rebellious!”

“You will be better disciplined in time, my poor child,” said her mother, sadly.  “As your grandmamma said, who could be so selfish as to wish him here?”

“And can you bear to say so, mamma?”

She clasped her hands and looked up, and Henrietta feared she had gone too far.  Both were silent for some little time, until at last the daughter timidly asked, “And was this your old room, mamma?”

“Yes:  look in that shelf in the corner; there are all our old childish books.  Bring that one,” she added, as Henrietta took one out, and opening it, she showed in the fly-leaf the well-written “F.H.  Langford,” with the giver’s name; and below in round hand, scrawled all over the page, “Mary Vivian, the gift of her cousin Fred.”  “I believe that you may find that in almost all of them,” said she.  “I am glad they have been spared from the children at Sutton Leigh.  Will you bring me a few more to look over, before you go down again to grandmamma?”

Henrietta did not like to leave her, and lingered while she made a selection for her among the books, and from that fell into another talk, in which they were interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of Mrs. Langford herself.  She sat a little time, and asked of health, strength, and diet, until she bustled off again to see if there was a good fire in Geoffrey’s room, telling Henrietta that tea would soon be ready.

Henrietta’s ideas of grandmammas were formed on the placid Mrs. Vivian, naturally rather indolent, and latterly very infirm, although considerably younger than Mrs. Langford; and she stood looking after in speechless amazement, her mamma laughing at her wonder.  “But, my dear child,” she said, “I beg you will go down.  It will never do to have you staying up here all the evening.”

Henrietta was really going this time, when as she opened the door, she was stopped by a new visitor.  This was an elderly respectable-looking maid-servant, old Judith, whose name was well known to her.  She had been nursery-maid at Knight Sutton at the time “Miss Mary” arrived from India, and was now, what in a more modernized family would have been called ladies’-maid or housekeeper, but here was a nondescript office, if anything, upper housemaid.  How she was loved and respected is known to all who are happy enough to possess a “Judith.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said she, as Henrietta opened the door just before her, and Mrs. Frederick Langford, on hearing her voice, called out, “O Judith! is that you?  I was in hopes you were coming to see me.”