“But we are _not_. And it’s only natural, eh, mum? There! they are calling me. I must fly. Shall I tell them?” “No-o; only Lady Maxwelton and the girls privately. She is her aunt! It will ooze out presently. There will be the usual nine days’ wonder. We must put up with that.” Tito picked up her hat and went over to a glass, settled her ruffled hair with both hands, and pinned on the picturesque pink muslin headgear, and stared at herself with a critical expression. No--although her eyes were good and her dark hair thick, and curly, her nose, as she said herself, was all wrong--she was not pretty, only fascinating and fetching. She had no fear that the coming companion would supplant her. She felt serenely confident that no one would compare her with an awkward, ignorant country girl, even although she _was_ an earl’s daughter. “I suppose I shall have to sit with my back to the horses in future,” she exclaimed, “and walk behind her ladyship into a room! But I haven’t got to share my allowance, or my maid, or partners. After all, perhaps I may like her very much; there’s nothing bad that might not be worse. Yes,” to a servant who had entered, “I’m coming--coming this moment.” Meanwhile, Mary--she could not get accustomed to her new name--had left Foley’s farm the evening of Katty’s death, and had been carried off to the “Glenveigh Arms” by her father. Here Miss Usher had been her true and kind friend, and endeavoured to comfort and console her, in what, in the lady’s experience, was an unparalleled situation. The girl was heart-broken at the death of a woman who was no relation, who had actually stolen her and brought her up in a station different to the one in which she was born; who had robbed her for years of her patrimony and her parent, as well as her position and wealth; yet Mary had no desire to be claimed. She shrank from “his lordship,” as she called him, and earnestly pleaded to be permitted “to live for the rest of her life, according,” as the Prayer-book says, “to its beginning.” Her bewildered father was at his wits’ end. All his newly-found daughter did, when in his society, was to weep, and weep, and weep! She most urgently desired to attend the wake, and passionately protested that if she were not present, people would “talk,” and it would raise a terrible scandal in the county! But no. Lord Mulgrave, although exceedingly anxious to please her in every way, was firm. It was not befitting that his daughter should be present at a wake. In every possible manner Mrs. Foley’s funeral would be conducted with respect--the Foley family should be benefited; but Mary must endeavour to remember that she had no real connection with them--and was Lady Joseline Dene. “Lady Joseline Dene!” cried she. “I just _hate_ the likes of her!”--and she got up precipitately! and rushed away to her own room, where she buried her head in the bedclothes.