Mr. Brandon went upstairs to his nephew. We were shown by her into the small parlour, which looked as faded as it had looked on our last visit, years before: as faded as she was. While relating to us how young Bevere's accident occurred, she had to run away at a call from upstairs. "Looks uncommonly careworn, doesn't she, Johnny!" remarked the Squire. "Seems a nice sort of person, though." "Yes, sir. I like her. Does it strike you that her voice has a home-ring in it? I think she must be from Worcestershire." "A home-ring--Worcestershire!" retorted he. "It wouldn't be you, Johnny, if you did not get up some fancy or other. Here she comes! You are not from Worcestershire, are you, ma'am?" cried the Squire, going to the root of the question at once, in his haste to convict my fancy of its sins. "Yes, I am, sir," she replied; and I saw the pink flush on her cheeks deepen to crimson. "I knew you, sir, when I was a young girl, many years ago. Though I should not have recognized you when you were last here, but that you left your card. We lived at Islip, sir; at that pretty cottage with the yellow roses round the porch. You must remember Dolly Grape." "But you are not Dolly Grape!" returned the Squire, pushing up his spectacles. "Yes, sir, I was Dolly Grape. Your mother knew us well; so did you." "Goodness bless my heart!" softly cried the Squire, gazing at her as if the news were too much for him. And then, starting up impulsively, he grasped her hand and gave it a hearty shake. A sob seemed to take her throat. The Squire sat back again, and went on staring at her. "My father disappeared mysteriously on one of his journeys; you may remember us by that, sir." "To be sure I remember it--Robert Grape!" assented the Squire. "Had to do with the post-horse duty. Got as far as Bridgenorth, and was never heard of again. And it is really you--Dolly Grape! And you are living here--letting lodgings! I'm afraid the world has not been overkind to you." She shook her head; tears were running down her faded cheeks. "No, it has not, sir," she answered, as she wiped them away with her handkerchief. "I have had nothing but ups and downs in life since leaving Worcester: sad misfortunes: sometimes, I think, more than my share. Perhaps you heard that I married, sir--one Mr. Mapping?" The Squire nodded slightly. He was too busy gazing at her to pay attention to much else. "I am looking at you to see if I can trace the old features of the old days," he said, "and I do now; they grow upon my memory; though you were but a slip of a girl when I used to see you. I wonder I did not recognize you at first." "And I wonder that you can even recognize me now, sir," she returned: "trouble and grief have so much altered me. I am getting old, too." "Have you lived in this house long?" "Nearly ten years, sir. I live by letting my rooms." The Squire's voice took a tone of compassion. "It can't be much of a living, once the rent and taxes are paid."