“I expect my niece, Mrs. Croft, to-morrow,” he said; “I am happy to think she will be able to make your acquaintance.” Then there came that look, which was not quite pleasant, over Heather’s face,—that look which set Mr. Stewart marvelling as to “what could be up” between the two women? Not an early jealousy, he decided; for Mrs. Croft was many a year older than Mrs. Dudley. What could it be? He was an especially inquisitive old gentleman, as sharp and keen concerning matters of feeling, as he was about matters of business, and so he went on,— “You have never met her, I think?” “Never,” Heather answered; “but my husband knew Mrs. Croft very well indeed at one time, and quite recently they renewed their former acquaintance at Copt Hall.” “Copt Hall—is not that Mr. Hope’s place? I recollect now, Douglas and his wife were staying there last autumn. Your husband is some relation of the Essex Hopes, is he not?” “His mother was a Miss Hope,” Heather explained; and shortly afterwards Mr. Stewart took his leave, trying to remember something he had heard about Miss Laxton having jilted a former suitor when she married his nephew. “Was Dudley the lucky fellow’s name?” he asked himself. “I’ll find out all about it when madam comes.” In due time, madam came, and her husband with her; and from the hour of their arrival, Heather commenced longing to return to town. Had it not been, indeed, that Lally was decidedly gaining strength, she would forthwith have packed up and departed; but the child was better; she could run about a little, and at times there was a colour in her face which made the poor mother trust the health and the gaiety of old was about to be restored to her. How Mrs. Croft ridiculed Heather’s anxiety about the little girl; how scornfully she would listen to Lally’s prattle; with what open contempt she watched the child sometimes struggling into Mr. Stewart’s arms, and beheld him fondling and caressing her, were things to be seen, not described. A stately woman, who looked born to rule a nation of slaves, and seemed to regard every one with whom she came in contact, her husband included, as so much dirt under feet; a woman who would have been beautiful but for the expression of habitual bad temper on her face; a woman who made every creature she met uncomfortable; who treated Heather with supercilious insolence, and at length told her without the slightest reserve she had instructed her child well. “She is playing her cards quite as cleverly as you,” finished Mrs. Croft, in a tone of suppressed fury, one day when she saw Lally throw down her wooden spade, and run with outstretched arms to meet Mr. Stewart. “Commend me to a meek, quiet woman when underhand means are to be employed, and a legacy is in question.” “Do you imagine I am expecting a legacy from any one?” asked Heather.