'I read you Adèle's letter on Monday,' said Miss Manisty, in a tone of patience--'and I told you then all I knew--but I noticed you didn't listen. I only saw her myself for a few hours at Boston. I remember she was rather good-looking--but very shy, and not a bit like all the other girls one was seeing. Her clothes were odd, and dowdy, and too old for her altogether,--which struck me as curious, for the American girls, even the country ones, have such a natural turn for dressing themselves. Her Boston cousins didn't like it, and they tried to buy her things--but she was difficult to manage--and they had to give it up. Still they were very fond of her, I remember. Only she didn't let them show it much. Her manners were much stiffer than theirs. They said she was very countrified and simple--that she had been brought up quite alone by their old uncle, in a little country town--and hardly ever went away from home.' 'And Edward never saw her?' inquired Mrs. Burgoyne, with a motion of the head towards Manisty. 'No. He was at Chicago just those days. But you never saw anything like the kindness of the cousins! Luncheons and dinners!'--Miss Manisty raised her little gouty hands--'my dear--when we left Boston I never wanted to eat again. It would be simply indecent if we did nothing for this girl. English people are so ungrateful this side of the water. It makes me hot when I think of all they do for us.' The small lady's blanched and wrinkled face reddened a little with a colour which became her. Manisty, lost in irritable reflection, apparently took no notice. 'But why did they send her out all alone?' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'Couldn't they have found some family for her to travel with?' 'Well, it was a series of accidents. She did come over with some Boston people--the Porters--we knew very well. And they hadn't been three days in London before one of the daughters developed meningitis, and was at the point of death. And of course they could go nowhere and see nothing--and poor Lucy Foster felt herself in the way. Then she was to have joined some other people in Italy, and _they_ changed their plans. And at last I got a letter from Mrs. Porter--in despair--asking me if I knew of anyone in Rome who would take her in and chaperon her. And then--well, then you know the rest.' And the speaker nodded again, still more significantly, towards her nephew. 'No, not all,' said Mrs. Burgoyne, laughing. 'I remember he telegraphed.' 'Yes. He wouldn't even wait for me to write. No--"Of course we must have the girl!" he said. "She can join us at the villa. And they'll want to know, so I'll wire." And out he went. And then that evening I had to write and ask her to stay as long as she wished--and--well, there it is!' 'And hence these tears,' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'What possessed him?'