The big woman waved her handkerchief and an odour of patchouli towards Mrs. Harland. "Oh, you're the schoolmarm?" The thickset woman eyed Mrs. Harland as though she were taking her mental measurement "Where's them boys of mine?" "These," explained the big woman, in the condescending way which seemed to be a peculiarity of hers, "are some of the other Mrs. Bindons. I have not," she added, "been treated quite with the civility I should like, and have a right to expect, but on this side they're so old-fashioned." "None of your old fashions for me, and none of your new ones neither. Give me the ways I'm used to. Where's them boys of mine?" The thick-set woman stared at Mrs. Harland in a manner which suggested combat. The lady pressed her hand to her side. She felt at a loss for breath. Mechanically she crossed the room and rang the bell. The servant appeared. "Tell the Masters Bindon that they are wanted in the drawing-room." The servant gazed in amazement at the assembled congregation. The order had to be repeated before her faculties returned. "Is that the hired gal?" inquired the thick-set woman directly the housemaid's back was turned. "Servant, they call them here," explained the big woman in her patronising way. The thick-set woman snorted. She glared at the big woman as though she were not grateful for the explanation. Silence prevailed. The nine ladies stared at Mrs. Harland. They seemed to be mentally appraising her. She herself appeared to be stricken with a sort of mental paralysis, as though the invasion had stricken her dumb. At last--it seemed a very long at last--the door reopened, and there appeared the red-haired Master Bindon--John F. Stanley. His appearance was followed by another interval of silence. The ladies stared at him. He stared at the ladies. No enthusiasm was shown on either side. The thick-set woman broke the silence. "So it's you?" "It's me." He edged away. "Don't you hit me!" he exclaimed. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "What for?" "Here you are in England, and your mother's looking for you in Canada. I guess your father's got you mixed." "I shouldn't wonder," struck in a thin, acidulated-looking woman, "if Mr. Bindon's took you for my George, and sent my George to Canada. I never knew such a head for children as that man has got. Is my George here?" "No," said Rufus. He grinned. "Then," exclaimed the acidulated-looking woman, "I'm clean done." The nervous little woman came forward. She laid her hand on Rufus's arm. "My Neddy's here! I'm sure my Neddy's here!" Although she said that she was sure, her tone was by no means one of certainty. Her voice trembled--the little woman trembled too. "He's not," said Rufus. He grinned again. "He's not!" The little woman started back. "Not here! Mr. Bindon told me himself that he'd sent my Neddy to school at the old place at Duddenham. He wouldn't let me come all this way for nothing. And I've spent all my money on my fare."