fficiently to say:

"Maria, I can hear noises in the street here just like there are at
home."

Maria's answer was the last sound she heard that night: "Bless yer 'art,
Miss Susan, that ain't noises in the street. That's that botherin' sea
goin' on like that. Worse luck!"

CHAPTER TWO.

"SOPHIA JANE."

Poor Maria was to go back to London the next morning, and she came into
Susan's room early to say good-bye, prepared for her journey in a very
tearful state. It was not merely that she looked forward with anything
but pleasure to another sea-voyage, but she had an affectionate nature,
and, was fond of Susan, who on her side was sorry to think that she
should not see Maria again. There were many parting messages to be
conveyed to Mother, and Nurse, and Freddie. But at last it was really
time to go, and Maria tore herself away with difficulty, hurriedly
pressing into Susan's hand a new sixpence with a hole in it. She was
gone now, and had taken the last bit of home with her--Susan was for the
first time in her life alone with strangers. As she dressed herself she
looked forward with alarm to meeting them all at breakfast, for she
could not even remember what they were like last night; they seemed all
mixed up together like things in a dream.

At last she gathered courage to leave the room, made her way very slowly
down-stairs, and opening the first door she came to on the ground floor
peeped timidly in. There was no one there, but the table was laid for
breakfast, and she went in and stood before the fire. It was a long
room, very low, with faded furniture, and a French window opening into a
small garden, where there were gooseberry bushes. At the end opposite
the fireplace there were two steps leading up to a door, and Susan
wondered what was on the other side of it. On the mantelpiece, and in a
corner cupboard and on a side-table, there were quantities of blue china
mugs and plates and dishes, which she thought were queer things to have
for ornaments; there were also some funny little figures carved in ivory
and wood--dear little stumpy elephants amongst them, which she liked
very much. The only picture in the room she presently noticed, hung
over the fireplace in an oval frame. It was a portrait of a gentleman
with powdered hair and a pig-tail; his eyes were as blue as the cups and
dishes; he was clean shaven, and wore a blue coat and a very large white
shirt frill. As Susan was looking up at him