“He was quite alone,” said Alick Dudley, laughing, almost in spite of himself, at her persistency, “and he spoke to me very much as anybody else might have done. Do you not think it would be a good thing if there were a kind of ‘Court Circular’ published at Kemms Park, telling us all about the great folks there—what visitors they had, what time they ate and drank?” “Yes, and we might be the editors, and walk over every day to learn particulars of their doings. I wish Lord Kemms would ask me to go and stay there.” “Perhaps he may, when Mr. Harcourt has made his fortune, and is created an earl.” “Then I shall be grey-haired,” she said, “and have rheumatism so bad, that even Kemms Park will seem disagreeable. How beautiful those trees do look, Alick! Is there not a village somewhere near Mr. Raidsford’s place?” “North Kemms you mean, I suppose,” replied her companion; “it is two miles, I should say, beyond Mr. Raidsford’s, that is, two miles by the road, but there is a path across the fields, which cuts off a great corner. It is a pretty walk to North Kemms, and there is such an old, old church there.” “Where?” asked Heather, joining them at the moment. “At North Kemms,” answered Bessie, promptly. “Alick is going to take me to see it next Sunday afternoon, are you not, Alick?” “If you do not think the walk too much,” he said; and then the rest of the party came out to “see the moonlight,” and there was no more talk, either about Lord Kemms or Kemms Park. That same night, Bessie having shaken down her hair, Heather came into her room, hoping Bessie would not be vexed if she asked her one little favour. “A hundred, if you like,” answered the girl. “I should be glad if you would speak to your mamma with more, more——” “Politeness,” suggested Bessie, finding Mrs. Dudley pause for want of a suitable word. “Not exactly politeness, but respect,” said Heather; “you know, dear, she _is_ your mother, and you ought to——” “Please, stop,” entreated Bessie. “I will strive to do what you ask for _your_ sake; if I cannot be good for that, nothing can make me good. You were very fond of your mother, I suppose—very tender towards her—very dutiful, no doubt?” “I hope I was,” Heather answered, in that low tone in which women talk of the dead whom they have loved. “And she was very fond of you?” “My dear child, what a question! of course she was.” “Well, supposing she had not been fond of you, nor you of her, perhaps even you might not have found it in the least degree easier to be dutiful and tender than I do?” “But you must be fond of her,” Heather asserted.