g almost as guilty as if she had been caught in some wrong
act, Bessie sobbed: "The door was open at first, and I knew it was Mrs.
Rossiter-Browne, whom I have seen at Stoneleigh. I heard what she said
of mamma, and oh, auntie, I am her daughter, and she is dead, and she
_was_ good at the last!"

In her sympathy for Bessie, Miss McPherson was even ready to do battle
for Daisy, and she replied:

"Mrs. Browne is a fool, and Allen is a bigger one, and Lord Hardy
biggest of all. Don't cry. She wants to see you. Wash your face, and
take off your apron and come down."

Five minutes later Bessie was shaking hands with Mrs. Browne, who told
her "she did not look very stubbed, that was a fact--that she guessed
seasickness had not agreed with her, and she'd better keep herself
swaddled up in flannel for a spell till she got used to the climate,
which was not like England."

"You come in the Germanic, your aunt tells me," she continued, as Bessie
took a seat beside her. "Then you must have seen Miss Lucy Grey and her
nephew, for they were on that ship, and I hear were met by somebody sent
from Boston to tell 'em to come right on, for Miss Jerrold was very
sick."

Bessie felt rather than saw the questioning eyes which her aunt flashed
upon her, and her face was scarlet as she answered:

"Yes, I saw Miss Grey. She was very kind to me when I was sick. She did
go directly to Boston."

"What is the matter with Mrs. Jerrold?" Miss Betsey asked, and Mrs.
Browne replied:

"The land only knows. Heart complaint, the last report, I believe. I saw
Hannah at the depot this morning; she'd been sent for, too. Geraldine
always wants her when she's sick; but the minit she is better, the old
maid sister is in the way, and not good enough for my lady's fine
friends. I know Geraldine Jerrold pretty well, and if I's Hannah I
wouldn't run to every beck and call, when nothing under the sun ails her
but hypo. She has had everything, I do believe--malary, cancers, spinal
cords, nervous prostration, and now it's her heart. Humbug! More like
hysterics. Burton Jerrold has got his hands full, and I pity him. Why,
he looks like an old, broken-down man, and his hair is as white as
snow."

Here Mrs. Browne, who had the conversation all to herself, stopped to
take breath. She was not an ill-natured woman, or one who often talked
of her neighbors, and after a moment, as if ashamed of her tirade, she
said:

"I've went it pretty glib against poor Miss