"`Ah! I know, my good girl. I haven't lived to eight-and-forty for nothing. How old are you?' "`Twenty,' I said, shivering, for her rough way repelled me, and I longed to bring the interview to an end. "`Why, the girl's cold,' she said roughly. `H'm, twenty! Here, go up to the fire, and have a good warm; it's dreadful weather. There, pull off your bonnet and jacket. Put them on that chair, and go closer to the fire; I've a deal to say to you yet, for I'm not going to engage another young person and have to change directly.' "I obeyed her, trembling the while, for I was very weak; and she went on asking me questions and making comments. "`I don't like your appearance at all: you look pale and unhealthy. Not a bit like a girl from the country.' "`I'm very sorry,' I said; `but indeed, ma'am, I have excellent health.' "`Then your face tells stories about you. You play, of course?' "`Yes, ma'am.' "`You're warm now. Go and play something. Can you sing?' "`Yes, ma'am.' "`Then sing too; and look here, Miss--Miss--Miss--' "I was about to tell her my name, but remembering the last rebuff, I was silent. "`Now, look here, my good young lady, how am I to remember your dreadful name? What is it?' "`Laurie, ma'am,' I replied. "`Of course it is: I remember it quite well. Now go and play and sing something; and mind, I don't want my ears deafened with fireworks, and the drums split with parrot-shriek bravuras. Sing something sweet and simple and old-fashioned--if you can,' she added, ungraciously. "I crossed the room and sat down to the magnificent piano, and for the next five minutes I seemed to be far away, down in the old home, as I forgot where I was, in singing my poor dead father's favourite old ballad, `Robin Adair;' while, as I finished, I had hard work to keep back the tears. "`Ro--bin A--dair,' she sang, as I rose, in a not unpleasing voice. `Now let me hear you read. I always make my companion read to me a great deal; and mind this, I hate to hear any one drone like a school-girl. Go over there into the corner of the window, and stand there. Take that book; you'll find the mark left in where Miss Belleville--bah! I believe her name was Stubbs, and her father a greengrocer--left off. Now then, begin!'