It was with a feeling of repressed excitement and unusual trepidation, that Lord Mulgrave, who had come over by the evening boat, walked into the hotel and inquired for Miss Usher. “Miss Usher and her ladyship were in,” said the porter; “in fact, they were in the hall.” Yes, he recognised Miss Usher’s black-and-white check gown, and her broad back; the girl with her--could it be Joseline? What a transformation! Undoubtedly clothes had done wonders; but her manners were as pitiably timid and uncouth as ever--she was actually shaking with nervousness. By Lord Mulgrave’s desire the little party dined in a private room, where he and Miss Usher talked, and did their utmost to promote the ease of their companion, who, in spite of her smart white gown and fashionable coiffure, was still the peasant in her heart. She ate but little, and scarcely opened her lips, fearing to be guilty of some awful blunder, and shock this handsome grey-haired gentleman! After the meal was over Miss Usher effaced herself with a murmured excuse about letters, and left the father and daughter to talk to one another alone. “Come here, my dear,” he said, drawing up a chair, “and let us endeavour to know one another. Talk to me, won’t you.” Joseline accepted the seat in trembling silence. What could she talk to him about? The price of calves, the Hennesseys’ wedding, the mission at Glenveigh, her new clothes? Cleverly, and by degrees, her father drew her out, and prevailed on her to thaw--to speak of herself and her upbringing; and as she became more familiar with his presence and the sound of her own voice, she talked a great deal, and unwittingly displayed her simple mind, and simple heart. She was a dear, sweet, good girl--the image of her dead mother; but twenty-one years yawned between him and her, and as he listened to her artless conversation, he felt overcome by the appalling state of her ignorance of what may be called, “life above stairs.” “Yes, I’ve had good schoolin’,” she was saying. “I can cast up figures, and knit, and mend lace; the nuns taught me.” “Yes; and anything else?” “I can sing--I was among the altos, and once I sang at a concert, and many a time at a dance.” “I’m glad you can sing. Will you sing to me now, my dear?” “Is it here?” she faltered. “Sure, I’ve no concertina.” “That is no matter.” “Oh, I’d be afraid, so I would. Oh”--twisting her hands--“I dare not.” “Now listen to me, Joseline” (how many years since he had uttered the name!). “If you are going to be afraid of _me_, I shall be afraid of _you_, and that will be a terrible misfortune. You have your mother’s face; if you have her nature, I don’t care one straw for accomplishments. I think you may have her voice. Will you not sing to me, my dear, and give me pleasure?”