e age of nineteen, a
white, wan, slender, delicate girl. But now a like number of years,
spent in calm, happy work, had left their traces also, and Mrs Tremayne
looked what she was, a gentle, contented woman of thirty-eight, with
more bloom on her cheek than she had ever worn in youth, and the piteous
expression of distressed suspense entirely gone from her eyes.

"Eh, Mistress Thekla!" was Barbara's greeting.

"I be cruel glad to see you. Methinks you be gone so many years younger
as you must needs be elder."

"Nay, truly, for I were then but a babe in the cradle," was the laughing
answer. "Thou art a losenger [flatterer], Barbara."

"In very deed," returned Barbara inconsistently, "I could have known you
any whither."

"And me also?" demanded another voice, as a little lively old lady
trotted out of the room which Mrs Tremayne had just left. "Shouldst
thou have known me any whither, Barbara Polwhele?"

"Marry La'kin! if 'tis not Mistress Rose!" [Name fact, character
fictitious.]

"Who but myself? I dwell with Thekla since I am widow. And I make the
cakes, as Arthur knows," added Mrs Rose, cheerily, patting her
grandson's head; "but if I should go hence, there should be a famine,
_ma foi_!"

"A famine of _pain d'epices_" assented Mrs Tremayne, smiling. "Ah,
Mother dear, thou spoilest the lad."

"Who ever knew a grandame to do other?" observed Barbara. "More
specially the only one."

"The only one!" echoed his mother, softly, stroking his long hair.
"There be four other, Barbara,--not lost, but waiting."

"Now, Barbara, come in hither," said Mrs Rose, bustling back into the
room, apparently desirous of checking any sad thoughts on the part of
her daughter; "sit thou down, and tell us all about the little Clare,
and the dear Master Avery, and all. I listen and mix my cake, all one."

Barbara followed her, and found herself in the kitchen. She had not
done wondering at the change--not in Mrs Tremayne, but in her mother.
Nineteen years before, Barbara had known Marguerite Rose, a crushed,
suffering woman, with no shadow of mirth about her. It seemed unnatural
and improper to hear her laugh. But Mrs Rose's nature was that of a
child,--simple and versatile: she lived in the present, whether for joy
or pain.

Mrs Rose finished gathering her materials, and proceeded to mix her
_pain d'epices_, or Flemish gingerbread, while Mrs Tremayne made
Barbara sit down in a large chair furnished with soft cus