“I really cannot say,” began Nancy; then she paused to consider for a moment. “Oh! I know,” she said, “there is a very pretty evening dress which I can wear to-night—grey silk—in the large basket trunk with the arched roof.” “I’ll have everything ready for you, ma’am, in less than a quarter of an hour,” said the girl. She withdrew as she spoke, closing the door of the bedroom behind her. Nance went up to where a fire burned merrily in a grate, which was bright with brass and ornamental with lovely tiles, and stood warming her feet. The paper on the walls was of the faintest tone of rose; the mantelpiece of the purest white marble; the overmantel and all the furniture were ivory white mounted in brass; the window curtains and the bed hangings were of the softest shade of rose silk; no more lovely room could be imagined, and Nance, as she turned to survey her slender image in the many mirrors which were inserted in the walls, could not sufficiently give voice to her admiration. Her husband came in while she was examining the room. “Ah!” he said, “I see the London people have done exactly what I told them. Well, Nance, what do you think of our bedroom?” “Perfect,” she answered; “I never want to leave it.” “Heaven forbid!” he cried; “that would mean that you were ill, which would never do. I am glad you like this room, but wait until you see the rest of the house.” “I am almost too happy,” said the girl, and she breathed a sigh, the depth of which nearly reached the point of pain. “What, because you have got a pretty room, little one?” he replied. He kissed her and went off to his dressing-room, whistling as he went. Hester came to summon Nance, and in a few moments the young wife found herself divested of her travelling things, her hair rearranged in the most becoming style, and her evening dress put on. She scarcely knew herself when she was arrayed for the evening, without having lifted a finger on her own behalf. “After all a maid is a comfort when one is dead tired,” she could not help thinking. Her instinct was to pick up and put by her own things, but Hester, who seemed to divine her intention, swept them out of sight with an almost peremptory gesture. “You may be sure I’ll do my best to try and please you, ma’am,” she said in a soft voice. Nance murmured her thanks and went downstairs. “She is a chit of a thing,” muttered the girl when her mistress had turned her back. “I can twist her round my little finger, particularly when I make use of some very private information, which will considerably alter the complexion of things for pretty Mrs. Rowton, or I am greatly mistaken.” CHAPTER X. THE BOY ON THE HEARTH.