“There, I’ve had it out, and cried in your lap anyway. Quite a little tempest, wasn’t it? I say, Edith, you are not to think I don’t want you to marry father, for I do. I like you ever so much, and I’m going to stand by you through thick and thin, and at first there’ll be more thick than thin, for Julia will not be pleased with a step-mother, and Em will follow Julia, and Alice, who is there a great deal, will sniff any way, and Aunt Christine will ride her highest horse; but you are sure to win in the end. Only wear your most queen-like air, and keep a stiff upper lip, and act as if born to the purple, and you’ll conquer at last, with the governor and me to uphold you. It’s a grand old place, and you’ll be happy there. Who is that? Look quick, do,” he exclaimed suddenly, and glancing toward the window Edith saw a cab standing before the gate, and a plainly dressed woman coming up the walk. “That is Mrs. Rogers,” she said. “She lodges here, but has been absent several weeks. We were not expecting her so soon.” “Mrs. Rogers,” Godfrey repeated. “I don’t mean that woman. It’s the girl in the cab, with the bright hair and blue eyes, and the prettiest face I ever saw. I wish she’d look out again.” “That must be Gertie Westbrooke, Mrs. Rogers’s daughter,” Edith said. “She is very pretty, I believe, though I have never seen her distinctly.” “Pretty! I should think she was! Why, she’s beautiful. I wish Bob Macpherson could see that face and paint it. He went off this morning to find some friends of his, but he’ll be back to the wedding. He is an artist I found in Rome. You are sure to like him. I must go now. Good-by, mother that is to be.” He kissed her fondly, and then hurried out to see again the face in the cab. Very curiously he gazed at the child, whose little fat hands went up to the eyes, ostensibly to push back the stray locks of auburn hair, but really to hide the blushing face. How pretty they looked as they lay like white rose leaves against the mass of bright wavy hair, and how Godfrey deplored the absence of Robert Macpherson, and wished he were himself a painter as he walked away, carrying with him that image of Gertie Westbrooke, with the shy, timid look on her face, the bright hair veiling her soft blue eyes and the white hands brushing back the hair. CHAPTER XVII. THE BRIDAL.