"There was no chance, Madam, so long as you were a child. The troubles in England were too great to allow of Sir Edward returning himself. I believe he charged my Lady on his deathbed to seek you out, and wherefore she tarried I know not. I had a mind once to go myself, and I named it to her, but was called a fool for my pains, and bidden to sit quiet and sew. But I was glad to see you." "Thank you, dear Patient," said Celia, affectionately. "And now tell me about the other." "Do you know, Madam, that my Lady was a widow when she wedded Sir Edward?" "No!" exclaimed Celia. "I never heard of that. But Philip--he is really my brother, is he not?" "Oh yes, Madam! Mr. Philip is your brother. I will tell you:--After my Lady Magdalene died, Sir Edward was for a time sore sick, and the doctors bade him visit and go about for the recovery of his health. I am scarce certain that it was the best thing he could do, howbeit he did as they bade him. Among the gentlemen whom he used to visit, where he whiles took his son Master Edward, and me as his nurse, was the Marquis of La Croix, and another was one Mr. Camillus De L'Orient. The Marquis was a stately old French gentleman, a kindly man to his own, I think, but one that held himself mortal high, and seemed to think that laboring men and the like were no better, if so good, as his dogs and his horses. The Marchioness, his wife, was much of the same sort, only I'm thinking she wasn't quite so stiff as he. They had no son--and very grieved they were for it--only three daughters: Madam Claudia, Madam Sophia, and Madam Amata. The last young lady is dead; she died a maid, and to my thinking she was a hantle the best of the three. Madam Sophia you saw the other evening; she wedded the Duke of Montausier. Madam Claudia is my Lady.