I HAD grown-up, a penniless little orphan, in my uncle's quiet country cottage, and when he died, I knew not where to look for another home. He had commended me to the care of his oldest friend, the rector of the parish, and had left me all that he had to leave—a thousand pounds and his blessing. The rector was a good man and a wise; he invested my small fortune to the best advantage, and sent me up to town to be the protégée and companion of his widowed sister, Lady Waterville. It had seemed to me a hard thing that nurse, who had been my loving tyrant from baby-hood, should have left me just twelve months before my uncle's death. After years of comfortable widowhood, she had yielded to the prayers of an old admirer, whose liking for her comely, rustic face had survived through many chances and changes. And so, with tears, she had taken leave of my uncle and me, and had gone off with her husband to his London home, little thinking how soon I was destined to follow her. Lady Waterville was very stout, very amiable, and indescribably lazy. I have said "indescribably," because no word in any language would ever completely express that wonderful indolence of hers. Many people are sufficiently ashamed of their idleness to veil it under pretty shams of work; but Lady Waterville never was ashamed in the least. She was uncompromisingly honest, and would plainly admit that anything in the shape of an occupation was hateful to her. The world was far too busy, she declared; as for herself, it had not pleased a kind Providence to give her a vocation, and she did not mean to thwart its designs by trying to find employment. "Here I sit," she would say, "with my idle hands before me, and even Satan himself has never found any mischief for them to do. So Dr. Watts is not infallible, my dear." In one of his stories, Mr. Wilkie Collins has introduced us to a lady who sat through life, and she must certainly have borne a strong resemblance to Lady Waterville. Strange as it may seem, this sitting existence appeared to agree with her extremely well; and, despite her obesity, she was a pretty old woman, with an open, good-tempered face, and soft hair which was a mixture of silver and gold. I have heard Ronald say that she always reminded him of an immense doll, smiling fatuously upon you through its glass window, untouched by any human ills, unaltered by the lapse of time. But although she was not blessed (or cursed) with any deep feelings, she was very comfortable to live with, and unvarying in her kindness to me. Her husband, Sir Clement Waterville, had been knighted for his services in India; and, having done with the army, he had settled himself in an old house in George Street, Hanover Square. There his widow was still living when I came up to town to be her companion, and there she continued to live to the end of her days.