sed it, nourished it, on the most exquisite of novels
and the rarest of romances, and these had taught her to show even more
sensibility than usual at sight of a barefoot girl with black hair and
eyes and an arresting, though wholly unconscious air that could but be
described by Miss Le Pettit, to herself and afterwards to her friends,
as Italianate.

"What an interesting face and figure!" she now exclaimed, at gaze
through the lorgnon, as though it were a celestial aid to vision needful
for such a long range, as it must be even for angelic eyes looking from
the skiey ramparts to a world where bare feet press the earth, to say
nothing of woollen doormats.

Loveday blenched before that searching gaze, the rare red burned in her
cheek and her own eyes sank abashed. She rubbed the flexible sole of one
foot in a stiffened curve of shyness against the slim ankle of the
other. Mrs. Lear exclaimed aloud in her horror.

"Loveday Strick, where are your manners to, that you come into the
parlour without a curtsey?" said she. "And indeed, I must ask you to
excuse her, ma'am, for she's but a nobody's girl from the village, and
doesn't know how to behave before gentry."

Mrs. Lear was a good soul, and had ever been kind to Loveday, but she
too had her sensibilities, and they were outraged by this untimely
intrusion of one world into another which was doubtless unaware even of
its existence. But Miss Le Pettit put up a delicate gloved hand in
protest.

"Nay, you frighten the child, Mrs. Lear," she said kindly, "I am sure
she means no disrespect. Did you ... what is your name, girl?'

"Loveday, ma'am."

"What a strange, old-fashioned name, to be sure," commented the taffetas
angel, with a crystal sounding titter, "'tis as good as the heroine in a
play. Whom were you called for, child?"

"My mother, ma'am," said Loveday, and now her cheek had ceased to burn
and looked pale, but she raised her eyes and confronted the vision
steadily.

Mrs. Lear coughed.

"I declare I should like to do a watercolour drawing of you, Loveday,"
went on Miss Le Pettit, "what do you say? Will you come up to the Manor
one day and let me paint your portrait?"

Loveday had not a notion what that process might be, but had she taken
it to be the blackest witchcraft (as she very likely would if she saw
it) she would still not have blenched. Her eye lightened, some instinct
told her that had she been as all the other girls, the Cherries and
Primroses,