of wonder and dignity, as her
hilarity proceeded, helped to revive her merriment again and again as it
was subsiding.

'There, you mustn't be vexed with old Cousin Monica,' she cried, jumping
up, and giving me a little hug, and bestowing a hearty kiss on my forehead,
and a jolly little slap on my cheek. 'Always remember your cousin Monica is
an outspoken, wicked old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by her
nonsense. A council of three--you all sat upon it--Mrs. Rusk, you said, and
Mary Quince, and your wise self, the weird sisters; and Austin stepped in,
as Macbeth, and said, 'What is't ye do?' you all made answer together, 'A
something or other without a name!' Now, seriously, my dear, it is quite
unpardonable in Austin--your papa, I mean--to hand you over to be robed and
bedizened according to the whimsies of these wild old women--aren't they
old? If they know better, it's positively _fiendish._ I'll blow him up--I
will indeed, my dear. You know you're an heiress, and ought not to appear
like a jack-pudding.'

'Papa intends sending me to London with Madame and Mary Quince, and going
with me himself, if Doctor Bryerly says he may make the journey, and then I
am to have dresses and everything.'

'Well, that is better. And who is Doctor Bryerly--is your papa ill?'

'Ill; oh no; he always seems just the same. You don't think him
ill-_looking_ ill, I mean?' I asked eagerly and frightened.

'No, my dear, he looks very well for his time of life; but why is Doctor
What's-his-name here? Is he a physician, or a divine, or a horse-doctor?
and why is his leave asked?'

'I--I really don't understand.'

'Is he a what d'ye call'em--a Swedenborgian?'

'I believe so.'

'Oh, I see; ha, ha, ha! And so poor Austin must ask leave to go up to town.
Well, go he shall, whether his doctor likes it or not, for it would not do
to send you there in charge of your Frenchwoman, my dear. What's her name?'

'Madame de la Rougierre.'

CHAPTER X

_LADY KNOLLYS REMOVES A COVERLET_

Lady Knollys pursued her enquiries.

'And why does not Madame make your dresses, my dear? I wager a guinea the
woman's a milliner. Did not she engage to make your dresses?'

'I--I really don't know; I rather think not. She is my governess--a
finishing governess, Mrs. Rusk says.'

'Finishing fiddle! Hoity-toity! and my lady's too grand to cut out your
dresses and help to sew them? And what _does_ she do? I venture to say
she's fit to teac