“Is she one of Aunt Roger’s nieces?” asked Henrietta. “Yes,” said Beatrice. “And--O! grandpapa, don’t look at me in that way. Where is the use of being your pet, if I may not tell my mind?” “I won’t have Henrietta prejudiced,” said Mr. Langford. “Don’t listen to her, my dear: and I’ll tell you what Jessie Carey is. She is an honest, good-natured girl as ever lived; always ready to help every one, never thinking of trouble, without an atom of selfishness.” “Now for the but, grandpapa,” cried Beatrice. “I allow all that, only grant me the but.” “But Queen Bee, chancing to be a conceited little Londoner, looks down on us poor country folks as unfit for her most refined and intellectual society.” “O grandpapa, that is not fair! Indeed, you don’t really believe that. O, say you don’t!” And Beatrice’s black eyes were full of tears. “If I do not believe the whole, you believe the half, Miss Bee,” and he added, half whispering, “take care some of us do not believe the other half. But don’t look dismal on the matter, only put it into one of your waxen cells, and don’t lose sight of it. And if it is any comfort to you, I will allow that perhaps poor Jessie is not the most entertaining companion for you. Her vanity maggots are not of the same sort as yours.” They had by this time nearly reached Sutton Leigh, a building little altered from the farm-house it had originally been, with a small garden in front, and a narrow footpath up to the door. As soon as they came in sight there was a general rush forward of little boys in brown holland, all darting on Uncle Geoffrey, and holding him fast by legs and arms. “Let me loose, you varlets,” he cried, and disengaging one hand, in another moment drew from his capacious pocket a beautiful red ball, which he sent bounding over their heads, and dancing far away with all the urchins in pursuit. At the same moment the rosy, portly, good-humoured Mrs. Roger Langford appeared at the door, welcoming them cordially, and, as usual, accusing Uncle Geoffrey of spoiling her boys. Henrietta thought she had never seen a happier face than hers in the midst of cares, and children, and a drawing-room which, with its faded furniture strewn with toys, had in fact, as Beatrice said, something of the appearance of a nursery. Little Tom, the youngest, was sitting on the lap of his cousin, Jessie Carey, at whom Henrietta looked with some curiosity. She was a pretty girl of twenty, with a brilliant gipsy complexion, fine black hair, and a face which looked as good-natured as every other inhabitant of Sutton Leigh.