urprise for you. Remind me of
it when we touch Ostend. We may want a yacht there to entertain high
company. I have set inquiries afloat for the hire of a schooner. This
child Mabel can read and write, I suppose? Best write no letters, boy.
Do not make old Dipwell a thorny bed. I have a portrait to show you,
Richie. A portrait! I think you will say the original was worthy of more
than to be taken up and thrown away like a weed. You see, Richie, girls
have only one chance in the world, and good God! to ruin that--no, no.
You shall see this portrait. A pretty little cow-like Mabel, I grant
you. But to have her on the conscience! What a coronet to wear! My
young Lord Destrier--you will remember him as one of our guests here; I
brought him to make your acquaintance; well, he would not be scrupulous,
it is possible. Ay, but compare yourself with him, Richie! and you and
I, let us love one another and have no nettles.'

He flourished me away to London, into new spheres of fancy. He was
irresistible.

In a London Club I was led up to the miniature of a youthful woman,
singular for her endearing beauty Her cheeks were merry red, her lips
lively with the spark of laughter, her eyes in good union with them,
showing you the laughter was gentle; eyes of overflowing blue light.

'Who is she?' I asked.

The old-fashioned building of the powdered hair counselled me to add,
'Who was she?'

Captain DeWitt, though a member of the Club, seemed unable to inform
me. His glance consulted my father. He hummed and drawled, and said:
'Mistress Anastasia Dewsbury; that was her name.'

'She does not look a grandmother,' said my father.

'She would be one by this time, I dare say,' said I.

We gazed in silence.

'Yes!' he sighed. 'She was a charming actress, and one of the best of
women. A noble-minded young woman! A woman of cultivation and genius! Do
you see a broken heart in that face? No? Very well. A walk will take us
to her grave. She died early.'

I was breathing 'Who?' when he said, 'She was my mother, my dear.'

It was piteous.

We walked to an old worn flat stone in a London street, where under I
had to imagine those features of beautiful humanity lying shut from us.

She had suffered in life miserably.

CHAPTER XXIV. I MEET THE PRINCESS

Hearing that I had not slept at the hotel, the Rev. Ambrose rushed down
to Riversley with melancholy ejaculations, and was made to rebound
by the squire's contemptuous recommenda