No greater difference between two young women could well be imagined, than that which existed in this instance. Lady Enville--for she was the taker of the siesta--was as free from any appearance of angularity or primness as possible. Everything about her was soft, delicate, and graceful. She was fair in complexion, and very pretty. She had been engaged in fancy-work, and it lay upon her lap, held lightly by one hand, just as it had dropped when she fell asleep. "Sister!" said Rachel again. Lady Enville stirred, sighed, and half opened her eyes. "Here is thy little maid, Sister." Lady Enville opened her blue eyes fully, dropped her work on the floor, and springing up, caught Clare to her bosom with the most exalted expressions of delight. "Fragrance of my heart! My rose of spring! My gem of beauty! Art thou come to me at last, my soul's darling?" Barbara looked on with a grim smile. Clare sat in perfect silence on her mother's knee, suffering her caresses, but making no response. "She is not like thee, Sister," observed Rachel. "No, she is like her father," replied Lady Enville, stroking the child's hair, and kissing her again. "Medoubteth if she will ever be as lovesome as I. I was much better favoured at her years.--Art thou aweary, sweeting?" At last Clare spoke; but only in an affirmative monosyllable. Clare's thoughts were mixed ones. It was rather nice to sit on that soft velvet lap, and be petted: but "Bab didn't like her." And why did not Bab like her? "Thou hast not called me Mother, my floweret." Clare was too shy for that. The suggestion distressed her. To move the house seemed as near possibility as to frame her lips to say that short word. Fortunately for her, Lady Enville's mind never dwelt on a subject for many seconds at once. She turned to Barbara. "And how goes it with thee, Barbara?" "Well, and I thank you, Mistress--my Lady, I would say." "Ah!" said Lady Enville, laughing softly. "I shall alway be Mistress Walter with thee, I am well assured. So my father Avery is dead, I count, or ye had not come?" The question was put in a tone as light and airy as possible. Clare listened in surprised vexation. What did "she" mean by talking of "Gaffer," in that strange way?--was she not sorry that he was gone away? Bab was--thought Clare. Barbara's answer was in a very constrained tone. "Ah, well, 'tis to no good fretting," returned Lady Enville, gently smoothing Clare's hair. "I cannot abide doole [mourning] and gloomy faces. I would have all about me fresh and bright while I am so." This was rather above Clare's comprehension; but looking up at Barbara, the child saw tears in her eyes. Her little heart revolted in a moment from the caressing lady in velvet. What did she mean by making Bab cry? It was rather a misfortune that at this moment it pleased Lady Enville to kiss Clare's forehead, and to say--