It was Saturday and there was no school for the little ones. Mattie, in brown linen dress, was trotting about after her mother, helping here and there, active and useful. Little Beauty was making bouquets for herself; dressed in white, because white she _would_ wear continually, and decorated with a sash and shoulder knots; and deprived of these ornaments she shrieked vigorously. "And this," said Lady Estelle, as they drove up, "is Brackenside. I did not know it was so pretty. A fit place for a romance." Honest Mark, abashed but happy, was anything but a hero of romance as he came up to greet his duke. "Good-morning, Mr. Brace," said the duchess, frankly. "We have heard so much of your little foster-child, your fairy changeling, that we drove over to hear her story and to see her. We would like, also, to see your wife and your own little girl." Mark Brace told the story in his matter-of-fact way, as he ushered the guests in the seldom-used parlor, the pride of Patty's soul. "It is not half so romantic a story as I thought," yawned Lady Estelle; "but let us see the child since we are here." Mark withdrew to summon his family. "Goodness, mamma!" drawled Estelle, "what a stiff, hideous place; framed samplers and horsehair chairs. I should die of it. It is well we are not all born alike." She lost herself in contemplation of a tall, eight-day clock. Enter Mark, leading Mattie, and Mrs. Brace carrying the golden-haired mystery. The child was beautiful as our dreams of angels. One small hand rested on Patty's shoulder, the other hung in a graceful curve; her large, clear, smiling eyes met her august guests, sweet and unabashed. The duchess raised her hands. "She is perfectly angelic!" "A true fairy," said the duke, taking the child from Patty, and standing her, as a thing to be admired, on the table. "What is your name, my dear?" "Doris," said the child, with a gracious little inclination of the head, extending her hand with ease, as if she had now found suitable acquaintances. Fair, pearly fair, her cheeks and lips mantled with the dainty bloom of the wild rose; her hair like spun gold, flowing over her molded shoulders; her eyes large, shining as stars under dark brows and lashes, fearless, free, not a trace of rustic embarrassment; taper fingers, ears like small pink shells, true child of the nobles, set now among her peers. "Estelle! do look at her!" cried her grace. Estelle roused herself from contemplating the clock; she drew off her gloves, and the jewels gleamed on her hands, as she took the child's soft palm, and gently stroked her golden hair. "You are like sunshine! Speak to me, little one." "Will you tell me what to say?" asked Doris, promptly. "What would you like best of anything--tell me?" "I would like to be _just like you_! I want to be tall, to have rings, and your pretty dress, and ride in a carriage. I don't like brown clothes, and donkey wagons."