“Oh, a sort of bare-legged girl, with a turf creel on her back.” The new-comer laughed hysterically as she removed her hat-pins. “Oh, well, I never was just as bad as that!” “I think you have made a most successful first appearance. You carried the house by storm, and, figuratively speaking, will have splendid notices in all the morning papers. You don’t understand my jargon? And you are worn out. Ah! here comes your maid. Justine, this is her ladyship. I see you have brought up some soup. You will look after her? She is frightfully tired. What time do you get up in the morning?”--turning to Joseline. “Half-past six!” was the prompt reply. “Half-past--horror! I generally emerge about eleven. To-morrow, I’ll come and look you up early, and we will go round the grounds together whilst Justine unpacks. Of course you breakfast in bed!” “Is it me? Never in my life!” “Well, I’m really going now. Good night.” Kissing her, she whispered, “sleep well, and dream happy dreams. I expect they will all come true!” CHAPTER XXIII Joseline, who was worn out, both bodily and mentally, slept a sound and dreamless sleep, from which she was aroused by the sound of careful footsteps, a rustling of starched petticoats, and a gentle opening of heavy shutters. She stared about the unfamiliar, lofty room. Where was she? As her gaze fell on the pale satin counterpane, the dignified dressing-table, beyond it a tall housemaid in a stiff print gown, cautiously raising the window-blinds, she closed her eyes. Would she open them on her own little quarters in the cottage loft?--a room with a wooden bed and patchwork quilt, a rickety washstand, and one chair? No, no--and she sat erect among her pillows--it was not a dream; she was at home--her real home. Sleepily she watched the clever housemaid arrange her bath, and carry in her tea in a dainty canary-coloured service. “At what time will you have your breakfast, my lady? Her ladyship said you would have it in your room.” “At nine o’clock. Just a bit of anything that’s going--I’m partial to stirabout.” “Very well, my lady.” Enter Justine the maid, with her smart lace-trimmed apron and air of critical inquiry, who began to arrange and put away and take out things in a sort of stealthy silence. Presently she came forward and asked-- “When will your ladyship get up?” “Oh, now,” she answered, “it’s all hours.” “When shall I come back?” “I can dress myself, thank ye.” “But your hair, my lady?” “Yes, I always do it meeself.” “Then you will ring if you want me. I’ve left out your blue cloth; it”--pause--“fastens up the back.”