"I say that if you wear such a frock you'll be more celebrated than the devil!" "Ah, bah!" cried her daughter. "You funny old woman. Is that all you have to say?" "No," she responded, and turning to Verona with a nod of her head at the different piles of her property which had been distributed, "they all like you very much now, Verona, child--'he who holds the ladle has everybody his friend.' But let me tell you one thing more--your mother has a pocket like the crop of a duck--you can never fill it!" "And you are a curiosity and should be put in a museum," retorted her daughter in great good humour. "Come, come, it is now half-past four o'clock; Blanche and Montagu will be here soon; let us clear away and dress," and swooping down upon a heap of her spoils, Mrs. Chandos hurried out of the room, followed by Dominga, Pussy and the ayah, each bowed down and nearly hidden by their loads of new finery. But Mrs. Lopez was slower to move; having extricated herself from her chair with considerable difficulty, she stood for a moment gazing at Verona, and said, in an impressive voice: "You have given me a nice present; you are a very generous girl and do not despise your old crannie grandmother, so I will tell you one good proverb to cheer you! Now listen." "I am listening, Nani." "'Our past is ourselves, what we are, and will be,'" quoted Mrs. Lopez, and she continued to look fixedly at Verona with a significant expression in her little dark eyes. "Do not trouble, child--you will never be of _us_," then hitching the black cat under her arm, she waddled away to her own quarters. CHAPTER XV There was a sudden commotion in the front part of the bungalow--barking, running and calling. Dominga, in a breathless condition, burst in upon Verona, and gasped out: "Oh, my goodness, here is Blanche! and none of us are dressed! Do go into the drawing-room, you are ready. Go, go, go!" Thus exhorted, Verona hastened into that apartment, barely in time to see a gharry, drawn by two wretched ponies, rattle underneath the porch. The first person she descried was a stout ayah, who descended backwards, carrying an infant over her shoulder; an alert, sharp-looking creature, in a gay hood, with eyes like two jet beads, and a dusky skin. The next to appear was, no doubt, Blanche herself; a little, dark, wiry woman, closely resembling her mother, wearing a smart pink cotton, a picture hat and a profusion of bead chains. She sprang up the steps, suddenly stopped short, stared helplessly at Verona, and exclaimed: "Hul--lo! I suppose this is the third Miss Chandos?" Then she giggled immoderately, and proceeded to kiss her, adding: "I am Blanche. Blanche Montagu Jones, you know, and here," turning and dragging forward her husband, "is your brother, Montagu."