Once, some few weeks after her arrival, stopping at the stationer’s and bookseller’s shop kept by Mr. Dixon, in the main street of the town, the footman opened the door, and she got out and went into the shop. Mrs. Dixon came forward to attend to her wants, and was followed by a pretty little girl of some ten years old, a child with a delicate skin, small, oval face, straight little nose, brown hair and eyes—all very neat and clear, and clean and pretty. She hid rather shyly behind her mother. ‘Is that your child?’ asked Miss Wynter, pointing with her parasol at the girl. ‘Yes, miss, this is Ada, our only one.’ ‘Oh, indeed! How old is she?’ ‘Ten, was a month last Sunday.’ ‘Ah, she is a pretty little creature. Does she go to school?’ ‘Yes, miss; but it’s her holiday-time now.’ ‘I wish you’d let her come home with me, and I’ll show her some pretty things. I am very lonely.’ The last words were spoken in the quiet, uninterested tone in which one says, ‘What a dull day it is!’ as if they hardly referred to herself, but to something outside her. ‘Oh yes, miss, she may go. I’m sure it’s very good of you. But I fear she’ll be a trouble to you.’ ‘Not at all, or I should not have asked her. Would you like to come with me, little Ada?’ asked Miss Wynter, turning to the child neither coldly nor unkindly, but with no change of expression at all—no lighting up of her soft, dark, quiet eyes; not the ghost of a smile upon her tranquil sculptured lips. At first, Ada hung back; and her mother began to expostulate with her, saying how good it was of the lady to invite her to go with her. The lady, in the same soft and gentle tone, remarked presently— ‘Oh, she won’t understand that, of course. If you will come with me, Ada, I will give you a pretty necklace, and a ribbon.’ At this prospect, all hesitation fled. Ada submitted at once to be made ready, Mrs. Dixon remarking admiringly— ‘Eh, but you have found the right road to her heart, miss, and that cleverly.’ ‘I will sit here, and wait till she is ready. Don’t put on her best frock, or anything of that kind, you know. She will do just as she is.’ Miss Wynter furthermore promised to restore Ada to her home and friends later in the evening, but Mrs. Dixon said she had to send her servant to the Balder Hall farm for butter, and she should call for the little girl and bring her back. Ada was perched in the carriage beside Miss Wynter, in which position she was seen of sundry comrades as she drove away. They called to her; asked her where she was going, and cried— ‘Eh, but, Ada, what a grand lady you are, to be sure!’ Ada took no manner of notice of them, but looked straight before her. ‘Why do you not kiss your hand to your friends, and say good-bye to them?’ asked Magdalen, turning indifferently, as she lay back, also indifferently, and looked with languid curiosity at the little flushed face and small figure, bristling with importance, beside her.