"Neighbour! she is no neighbour of mine, dwelling up by Marton Moss!" interrupted Barbara, as satirically as before. "And in regard to her pitiful health--why, Marian, I have dwelt in the same house with her for a year and a half, and I never knew yet her evil health let [hinder] her from a junketing. Good lack! it stood alway in the road when somewhat was in hand the which misliked her. Go to church in the rain,--nay, by 'r Lady!--and 'twas too cold in the winter to help string the apples, and too hot in the summer to help conserve the fruits: to be sure! But let there be an even's revelling at Sir Christopher Marres his house, and she bidden,--why, it might rain enough to drench you, but her cloak was thick then, and her boots were strong enough, and her cough was not to any hurt--bless her!" The tone of Barbara's exclamation somewhat belied the words. "Have a care, Bab, lest--" and Marian's glance at Clare explained her meaning. "Not she!" returned Barbara, looking in her turn at the child, whose attention was apparently concentrated on one of Marian's kittens, which she was stroking on her lap, while the mother cat walked uneasily round and round her chair. "I have alway a care to speak above yon head." "Is there not a little sister?" asked Marian in a low tone. "Ay," said Barbara, dropping her voice. "Blanche, the babe's name is [a fictitious character.] Like Mrs Walter--never content with plain Nell and Nan. Her childre must have names like so many queens. And I dare say the maid shall be bred up like one." The conversation gradually passed to other topics, and the subject was not again touched upon by either sister. How much of it had Clare heard, and how much of that did she understand? A good deal more of either than Barbara imagined. She knew that Walter had been her father's name, and she was well aware that "Mistress Walter" from Barbara's lips, indicated her mother. She knew that her mother had married again, and that she lived a long way off. She knew also that this mother of hers was no favourite with Barbara. And from this conversation she gathered, that in the event of something happening--but what that was she did not realise--she was to go and live with her mother. Clare was an imaginative child, and the topic of all her dreams was this mysterious mother whom she had never seen. Many a time, when Barbara only saw that she was quietly dressing or hushing her doll, Clare's mind was at work, puzzling over the incomprehensible reason of Barbara's evident dislike to her absent mother. What shocking thing could she have done, thought Clare, to make Bab angry with her? Had she poisoned her sister, or drowned the cat, or stolen the big crown off the Queen's head? For the romance of a little child is always incongruous and sensational.