"Sir Morton Pippitt! What a funny name! Who is he?" "Well, Miss, they do say he makes his money at bone-melting; but he's awful proud for all that--awful proud he is--" "Well, I should think so!" said Maryllia, with much solemnity; "Bone-melting is a great business! Does he melt human bones, Nancy?" "Oh, lor', Miss, no!" And Nancy laughed, despite herself; "Not that I've ever heard on--it's bones of animals he melts and turns into buttons and such-like." "Man is an animal, Nancy," said Maryllia, sententiously, giving one or two little artistic touches to the loose waves of hair on her forehead; "Why should not HIS bones be turned into buttons? Why should HE not be made useful? You may depend upon it, Nancy, human bones go into Sir Morton What's-his-name's stock-pot. I shouldn't wonder if he had left his own bones to his business in his will! "'Imperial Caesar dead and turned to clay, May stop a hole to keep the wind away!' That's so, Nancy! And is the gentleman who boils bones the only man about here one could ask to dinner?" Nancy reflected. "There's the Passon--" she began. "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Maryllia, with a little shrug of impatience; "Worse than the bone-boiler!--a thousand times worse! There! That will do, Nancy! I'll stroll about till dinner's ready." She left the room and descended the stairs, followed by the faithful Plato, and was soon to be seen by various retainers of the curious and excited household, walking slowly up and down on the grass terrace in her flowing white draperies, the afterglow of the sinking sun shining on her gold-brown hair, and touching up little reddish ripples in it,--such ripples as were painted by the artist of Charles the Second's day when he brushed into colour and canvas the portrait of Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt. Primmins, late butler to the irascible Sir Morton Pippitt, was so taken with the sight of her that he then and there resolved his 'temp'ry service' should be life-long, if he could manage to please her; and little Kitty Spruce being permitted by her mother to peep at the 'new lady' through the staircase window, could only draw a long breath and ejaculate: "Oh! Ain't she lovely!" while she followed with eagerly admiring eyes the gossamer trail of Maryllia's white gown on the soft turf, and strained her ears to catch the sound of the sweet voice which suddenly broke out in a careless chansonette: "Tu m'aimes, cherie? Dites-moi! Seulement un petit 'oui,' Je demande a toi! Le bonheur supreme Vient quand on aime, N'est-ce-pas cherie? 'Oui'!" "She's singin' to herself!" said the breathless Kitty, whispering to her mother; "Ain't she jest smilin' and beautiful?"