“It is three days that we have been expecting you,” said she, tartly, as she walked briskly on, turning at times to point a sarcasm with a fierce look. “You were punctual enough on Tuesday last, when you came for your rent. You were to the very minute then, because it suited yourself. But you are like all your countrymen--mean, selfish, and greedy. As to those pears you brought last, I have struck them off the account. You may bring others if you please, but I’ll not pay for rotten fruit any more than I will for three journeys to Como for nothing--do you hear me, Sir? three journeys to look after my writing-desk, which I lost on the Rhine, but which I know was forwarded here, though I can’t get it. Is it worth your while to answer? Oh, of course, your old excuse--you are forgetting your English--it is so long since you were a courier. You knew quite enough, when I came here, to make me pay more than double the proper rent for this miserable place, with out a carpet, or--” Just as she readied thus tar, she was joined by one of the young girls, whose looks had vastly changed for the better, and was now a strikingly fine and handsome girl. “Milly,” said the old lady, “take this man round by the kitchen garden, and get some one to take the fruit from him, and be sure you count the melons.” Not sorry for the change of companionship, Calvert followed Milly, who, not condescending to bestow a look on him, moved haughtily on in front. “Leave your baskets yonder, my good man,” said she, pointing to a bench under a spreading fig-tree; and Calvert, depositing his burden, drew himself up and removed his hat. “My aunt will pay you,” said she, turning to go away. “I’d far rather it had been the niece,” said he, in English. “What do you mean? Who are you?” “A stranger, who, rather than suffer you to incur the privation of a breakfast without fruit, rowed across the lake this morning to bring it.” “Won’t he go, Milly? What is he bargaining about?” cried Miss Grainger, coming up. But the young girl ran hastily towards her, and for some minutes they spoke in a low tone together. “I think it an impertinence--yes, an impertinence, Milly--and I mean to tell him so!” said the old lady, fuming with passion. “Such things are not done in the world. They are unpardonable liberties. What is your name, Sir?” “Calvert, Madam.” “Calvert? Calvert? Not Calvert of Rocksley?” said she, with a sneer. “No, Ma’am, only his nephew.” “Are you his nephew, really nis nephew?” said she, with a half incredulity. “Yes, Madam, I have that very unprofitable honour, if you axe acquainted with the family, you will recognise their crest;” and he detached a seal from his watch-chain and handed it to her. “Quite true, the portcullis and the old motto, ‘Ferme en Tombant’ I know, or rather I knew your relatives once, Mr. Calvert;” this was said with a total change of manner, and a sort of simpering politeness that sat very ill upon her.