father, Sir John, might be
bringing a new mistress here."

"What! a new mistress?--A housekeeper, do you mean?" Nan's brown eyes
were open at their widest.

"No, dearie, no, a wife--someone to take the head of the house. Men like
Sir John must have their comforts, and a house without a mistress isn't
as it ought to be. But there, Miss Hetty is here now, and that makes
everything right."

"But a new mistress," repeated Nan--"a new wife for father. Why,
she--she'd be a _stepmother_. Oh, how I'd hate her."

"Well, darling, there's not going to be any such person; it was only an
idle fear of your poor old nurse's that will never come to anything.
Forget that I said it to you, Miss Nan. Oh, my word! and there's the
gong, so supper is ready, and Sir John won't like to be kept waiting.
Let me brush out your hair, I won't be a minute. Now, there's my pretty.
It's good to have you back again, Miss Nancy. Only I misdoubt me that
you'll turn the house topsy-turvey, as you always and ever did."

While nurse was speaking, she was deftly and quickly changing Nan's
travel-stained frock for a white one, and was tying a coral pink sash
round her waist.

"Now you're ready," she said, giving the little figure a final pat.

Nan shook out her golden mane and went demurely downstairs--more
demurely than was her wont. The dawning of possible trouble filled her
sweet eyes. A new wife--a possible stepmother! Oh, no, by no
possibility could such a horror be coming; nevertheless, her full cup of
happiness was vaguely troubled by the thought.

CHAPTER II.

CRUSHED.

Sir John Thornton could be a very pleasant host. He was a reserved man
with a really cold nature. He disliked fuss and what he called
"ebullitions of affection;" he hated kissing and fondling. He liked to
treat even his nearest and dearest with ceremony, but he was a perfect
host--the little attentions, the small politenesses which the _role_ of
host requires, suited his character exactly. Hester and Nan, his only
children, were his opposites in every respect. It is true that Hester
inherited some of his pride, and a good deal of his reserve, but the
fire underneath her calm, the passionate love which she could give so
warmly to her chosen friends, she inherited from her mother, not from
her father. Nan had never yet shown reserve to anyone. As far as any
creature could be said to be without false pride, Nan was that
individual--she was also absolutely devoid of f