“She can think what she likes, as she usually does,” answered Bessie, making a movement as if to take Lally from her mother. She had been in the habit of carrying the child off to bed every night, and it came natural to her now to do so, though Heather was at home once more. She forgot she had been but at best a self-constituted viceroy, and that the rightful queen had returned to take possession of her own again; but the involuntary backward step with which Heather repulsed her intention was like a revelation to Bessie. The woman she had regarded as perfect, was but flesh and blood, after all. She could feel jealous, and she did, and she meant to keep Lally all to herself for the future, and never to permit a stranger’s hand to be laid, if she could help it, on the child. But Bessie was not one to bear such a proceeding patiently. “Don’t depose me,” she said, in a tone which was one-half of entreaty, half of banter. “It won’t be for long. Am not I going to a home of my own, where I shall have something else to do than sing lullabies to other people’s children? Besides, it will do you good; you are a little inclined to be jealous. Never fear, I won’t take Lally’s love from you; I could not do it if I would, and I would not if I could. Let me sing her to sleep still, please do. She won’t need much rocking to-night;” and she held out her arms to Lally, who tumbled headlong into them, only sufficiently awake to clutch at her mother’s sleeve and entreat her to “come too.” “I will come up when you are in bed, pet,” said Mrs. Dudley, turning aside into the dining-room, while the girl slowly ascended the broad staircase, humming “Isabelle” while she carried her light burden step by step up to that pleasant chamber with the snowy draperies, with the wide prospect, with its windows half-covered with roses and greenery, which came back to Bessie Ormson’s memory in dreams when she was far away both from Hertfordshire and Heather. After a little time Mrs. Dudley followed her, and kissed the children, and then stood looking at them lingeringly till she said she must go down to supper. “Lally will be fast asleep in two minutes,” remarked Bessie, “then I will follow you.” But the minutes passed, and still no Bessie put in her appearance at the “old-fashioned meal,” as Mrs. Ormson styled supper. “Shall I tell Bessie?” asked Agnes Dudley; and she was about leaving the room when Heather stopped her. “I will go, love,” she said, just touching the girl’s cheek with her hand in passing. She had tender, caressing ways, this woman, whose life was still all before her. No one felt neglected when she entered. Her nature was to consider the very dumb animals,—to leave nothing outside the circle within which she stood; and feeling that she might have been a little inconsiderate towards Bessie, she went to seek her, meaning to make amends, to thank her for all her kindness to Lally.