“Nobody cares for an old mummy like me,” (how Brownie wished she would not call herself such horrid names), “and I do get lonely staying by myself all the time; though the time was when there were few who were not glad to seek the society of Lady Ruxley. Minnett, my maid, is no company, and I’ve not been able to find any one who was willing to be companion to a deaf old woman. “They try to be polite,” she went on garrulously, “to me when I go down into the drawing-room, because they know I’m rich, and they think it won’t do to cross me; but I know my room is better than my company. Nobody but Charles cares for his old aunt; he’s Lady Randal’s son, and as good as gold. He’s always civil, and would give me his arm out to dinner as gallantly as to the handsomest belle in the kingdom. He believes in the old proverb about ‘honoring the hoary head,’ which is more than most young people nowadays do. How is it, young woman—do you like old folks?” She had run on in a rambling sort of way, but as she asked this question, she turned to Brownie, and eyed her keenly. “I had a dear aunt, who was all the friend I had in the world since I was a little baby. She was both father and mother to me, and I shall always feel tenderly toward old people for her sake,” Brownie replied, the quick tears springing to her eyes. “Is she dead?” “Yes; she died the fifth of last September.” “Was she old and ugly and withered like me?” Poor Brownie! it was a hard question, remembering so vividly as she did Miss Mehetabel’s fair, lovely face, set in its framework of clustering, silvery curls. The comparison was not favorable, to say the least, to this antediluvian before her. She flushed with embarrassment as she gently replied: “All old people grow wrinkled, you know, and her hair was much whiter than yours.” Lady Ruxley chuckled merrily over this non-committal answer. “Young woman, you are as ‘wise as a serpent, and as harmless as a dove,’ and I’m of the opinion that your aunt might have thought considerable of you. What was her name?” “I was named for her,” the young girl replied, evasively. “Mabel Dundas. It is a pretty name; I like it.” And the queer old lady looked as if she liked the owner of it, too. The next morning, after the servant who waited upon Brownie had attended to all her wants, and left her, there came a rap upon her door. The next moment a handsome woman of about fifty entered. Brownie arose, bowed courteously, and remained standing till she was addressed. “Miss Dundas,” the lady said, “I must apologize to you for any seeming neglect in not coming to see you before, but I have a house full of company; but I have given orders that you should want for nothing. I am Lady Randal, and I have come to have a few moments’ conversation with you.” She seated herself, and motioned for Brownie to do the same, then resumed: