tress?" says Hannah. And if it is a fact that
Miss Honeyman does happen to be in the front parlour looking at the
carriages, what harm is there in the circumstance, pray? Is not Gawler
looking, and the people next door? Are not half a dozen little boys
already gathered in the street (as if they started up out of the
trap-doors for the coals), and the nursery maids in the stunted little
garden, are not they looking through the bars of the square? "Please to
speak to mistress," says Hannah, opening the parlour-door, and with a
curtsey, "A gentleman about the apartments, mum."

"Five bet-rooms," says the man, entering. "Six bets, two or dree
sitting-rooms? We gome from Dr. Goodenough."

"Are the apartments for you, sir?" says the little Duchess, looking up
at the large gentleman.

"For my lady," answers the man.

"Had you not better take off your hat?" asks the Duchess, pointing out
of one of her little mittens to "the foring cove's" beaver, which he has
neglected to remove.

The man grins, and takes off the hat. "I beck your bardon, ma'am," says
he. "Have you fife bet-rooms?" etc. The doctor has cured the German of
an illness, as well as his employers, and especially recommended Miss
Honeyman to Mr. Kuhn.

"I have such a number of apartments. My servant will show them to you."
And she walks back with great state to her chair by the window, and
resumes her station and work there.

Mr. Kuhn reports to his mistress, who descends to inspect the
apartments, accompanied through them by Hannah. The rooms are pronounced
to be exceedingly neat and pleasant, and exactly what are wanted for
the family. The baggage is forthwith ordered to be brought from the
carriages. The little invalid wrapped in his shawl is brought upstairs
by the affectionate Mr. Kuhn, who carries him as gently as if he had
been bred all his life to nurse babies. The smiling Sally (the Sally
for the time-being happens to be a very fresh pink-cheeked pretty little
Sally) emerges from the kitchen and introduces the young ladies,
the governess, the maids, to their apartments. The eldest, a slim
black-haired young lass of thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks at
all the pictures, runs in and out of the verandah, tries the piano, and
bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle (it had been poor Emma's piano,
bought for her on her seventeenth birthday, three weeks before she ran
away with the ensign; her music is still in the stand by it: the Rev.
Charles Hone