“From one and another,” answered Bessie, carelessly; “I am the rolling stone which gathers moss, contrary to the words of the proverb; and, wherever I go, I hear something to the advantage or disadvantage of somebody. Concerning Miss Hope, the moss I have gathered is to the effect that she dresses peculiarly badly abroad, and peculiarly well in England; that foreigners regard her with awe and wonder, as an average specimen of the British female; that she praises everything English in foreign countries, and everything English when abroad; that she is to be met with on the stairs leading to attic studios, and dines in the most wonderful manner for threepence per diem; that she is considered mad by the Parisians, and a great and good lady by the Germans; that she was requested to leave Vienna; and that at Rome she is regarded with distrust, because of the audible comments she is in the habit of making during mass, concerning the mummery of the Catholic religion. For the rest, I am told that, since her nephew has come of age and married, she has vowed a vow never to set foot in Copt Hall, but will, when she returns to England, take up her abode in a London boarding-house, where she can discourse to her fellow-sufferers concerning French cookery and George Sand, the gondolas of Venice, and the terrible designs and wonderful genius of Napoleon the Third.” “Who told you all this, Bessie?” demanded Squire Dudley, turning round in his chair as he asked the question. “What can it matter who told me?” she replied. “Is the record not true?” “True or false, I should like to know the name of your informant,” he said; “for I never knew but one person who talked in that way of my aunt. Was it a man or a woman?” he persisted. “You might be more polite, Arthur,” she replied; “a lady.” “Was it Mrs. Aymescourt?” he asked. “I did not know there was such a person upon earth,” she replied. “Don’t tell stories, Bessie,” interposed Mrs. Ormson; “you must have heard of her over and over again.” “If I ever did, I have forgotten all about her,” answered Bessie; “at any rate, it was not from any one of the name of Aymescourt I ever heard a sentence concerning Miss Hope’s peculiarities.” “And who is Mrs. Aymescourt?” inquired Heather. “Oh! a friend of Miss Hope’s; at least, she used to be,” answered Mrs. Ormson, vaguely; and then she looked at Arthur, who, pulling cherries out of a basket lined with green leaves, refused either to meet her glance, or to vouchsafe any further information on the subject. “Did you know Mrs. Aymescourt, Arthur?” asked Heather, whose curiosity was a little piqued. “I—yes, to be sure; she used to be staying with my aunt at Copt Hall, but I have not seen her these ten years.” “Was not there something about Mr. Aymescourt having come into another fine property?” inquired Mrs. Ormson.