"These are your rooms," she said. "I will give you a new attendant, for I must have Thérèse to myself now. These will be entirely at your disposal, within certain restrictions. I shall visit you every morning, to have your masters' opinions as to your improvement, and you will take a dish of coffee or chocolate with me in my boudoir at four o'clock every afternoon. Until you are formed, you must dine alone, except when I dine entirely _en famille_. Your masters will attend you in the antechamber every morning. No one must be permitted to cross the threshold of your boudoir, except myself and your brothers, your own attendant, or any person sent by me. Do you dislike that?" "No, Madam; I am very glad to hear it." "Ah! my Sister of St. Ursula!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "But remember this is only until you are formed, and the sooner that happens the better pleased I shall be." "I am anxious to obey your wishes in everything not forbidden by my conscience, Madam." "Very well," said Lady Ingram, still laughing. "The conscience requires a little formation too, _ma belle_, as well as the manners. Farewell! I will send your attendant." She sailed away with her usual languid stateliness, and Celia went forward into the bedroom. She was vainly endeavoring to find an unlocked drawer in which to place her hood and cloak, when a low, quiet voice behind her said: "Here are the keys, Madam. Will you allow me to open them for you?" Celia looked up into a face which won her confidence at once. Its owner was a woman of middle height, whose age might be slightly under sixty. Her dress was of almost Quaker simplicity, and black. Her hair and eyes were of no particular color, but light rather than dark; her face wore no expression beyond a placid calm. But Celia fancied that she saw a peculiar, deep look in the eyes, as if those now passionless features might have borne an expression of great suffering once. "Oh, thank you!" said Celia, simply. "Is it you whom my Lady promised to send?" "I am to be your woman, Madam. I am her Ladyship's sewing-woman; my name is Patient Irvine." The "lady's woman" of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was the ancestress rather of the modern companion than of the maid. She was called by her Christian or surname, sewed for her mistress, and assisted her in dressing; but in every other particular the mistress and maid were upon equal terms. The "woman" was her lady's constant companion, and nearly always her _confidante_. She sat at her mistress's table, went with her into company, and appeared as a member of her family when she received her friends. As a rule, she was the equal of her lady in education, and not seldom her superior. Her inferiority lay in birth and fortune, sometimes in the latter only. "And what would you like me to call you?--Patience or Irvine?" asked Celia of her new acquaintance. "Patient, if you please, Madam." "Patient--not Patience?"