She was his favourite sister, his senior by two years, fond and proud of him, his counsellor and ally in all things; like himself, passionately fond of music; like himself a born musician. This charm, in conjunction with her beauty, had made her the glory and delight of a small provincial circle, which widened before her influence. Wykhamston society was the narrowest and stiffest of systems; but the fame of Janet Davoren’s beauty and Janet Davoren’s voice travelled beyond the bounds of Wykhamston society. In a word, Miss Davoren was taken notice of by the county. The meek old Rector, with his pleasant face, and bald head scantily garnished with iron-gray hair, was made to emerge from retirement, in order to gratify the county. He was bidden to a ball at the Marquis of Guildford’s; to a private concert at Sir Horatio and Lady Veering Baker’s; to dinners and evening parties twenty miles away from the modest Rectory. Miss Davoren was even invited to stay at Lady Baker’s; and, going ostensibly for a few days, remained her ladyship’s guest for nearly a month. They were all so fond of the dear girl, Lady Baker informed the Rector. ‘_I_ am not good enough, I suppose,’ said Mrs. Davoren, when the Marchioness and the Baronet’s wife, after calling upon her, and being intensely civil for fifteen minutes, ignored her in their cards of invitation. ‘Never mind, Stephen, if you and Janet enjoy yourselves, I’m satisfied; and it’s lucky they haven’t invited me, for I’ve nothing to wear but my old black satin and the Indian scarf, and _they’d_ never do for the Castle or Lady Veering Baker’s. They’re well enough in Wykhamston, where people are accustomed to them.’ So the Rector’s worthy wife, who had supreme control of the family purse, arrayed her handsome daughter in the prettiest dresses the Wykhamston milliner could achieve, and ornamented the girl’s dark hair with camelias from the little greenhouse, and was content to sit at home and wonder what the grand Castle folks thought of her Janet, and whether her dear old man was having an agreeable rubber; content to sit up late into the night, while the rectory handmaidens snored in their attic chambers, till the creaky old covered wagonette brought home the revellers, when she would sit up yet another hour to hear the tidings of her darling’s triumphs; what songs she had sung, what dances she had danced, and all the gracious things that had been said of her and to her.