An overgrown girl of seven years, with a bad figure, even for a child of that age when grace is not a common attribute, with arms which seemed too long, and certainly were so in relation to the sleeves which cased them, with a thin neck, and a positively ugly face--that was what Isabel saw when she raised her eyes in anticipation at the opening of the door. A face decidedly ugly, and, for Isabel, with something in it more repellent than mere ugliness, something for which she had at once looked, and which she found only too unmistakably. The face regarded her half in fear, half in defiance; there seemed no touch of shyness in the gaze, and Isabel was not in a mood for perceiving that it was really excess of shyness which formed the expression. The child had been washed and warmed, but had not eaten yet; she had refused to eat. She and Isabel looked at each other for a little space; then the latter summoned the attendant maid by a gesture to her side. “Have her properly clothed,” she said in a low voice, “and do what you can to make her at home in the room upstairs. Her own maid will be here to-morrow.” “Yes, ma’am,” said the servant; adding, with a nervous cough, “must it be mourning, ma’am?” Mrs. Clarendon uttered a very clear “No,” and gave a few other directions. “Let her be put to bed at seven o’clock, and tell me to-morrow morning how she has passed the night.” All that was as living to-day in Ada’s memory as if but a week had intervened. She saw the beautiful black-clad lady sitting by the fire, holding a fan to guard her face against excessive heat, and she heard several of the orders given. That night she had gone to bed hating the beautiful lady with a precocious hatred. Three days went by before the two met again. Ada was now neatly attired, and her long hair, previously unkempt, had been done up and made presentable. It only made her neck look the longer and thinner, and put into relief the hard lines of her thin face. The probability was she had hitherto been half-starved. She was brought to the boudoir, and Mrs. Clarendon bade the servant go. “Will you come and sit here by the fire?” Isabel said, speaking as softly as she could. A low seat had been put by the hearth-rug in readiness. The child approached, swinging her long arms awkwardly, and seated herself on the edge of it. “Your name is Ada, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “You haven’t a father or mother, have you, Ada?” “No.” “That is why you are come to live with me. I haven’t a little girl of my own, so I’m going to take care of you, and treat you like my own child. Do you think you can be happy with me?” “I don’t know.” The child spoke with a detestable London working-class accent, which made her voice grate on Isabel’s ears even more than it otherwise would have done. “I shall do my very best to be kind to you,” Isabel continued, after a struggle with her feelings. “Have you been happy till now--I mean with the other people in London?” “No,” was the decided answer.