The arrangement was not to Janet’s taste. She thought herself perfectly capable of escorting the younger ones, especially as they were to take their maid, a capable person named Delrio, daughter of an Englishwoman and a German waiter, and widow of an Italian courier, who was equal to all land emergencies, and could speak any language. She belonged to the young ladies. Their mother, not liking strangers about her, had, on old nurse’s death, caused Emma to learn enough of the lady’s maid’s art for her own needs at home, and took care of herself abroad. Babie was enraptured to be going to Mother Carey and Armine, and Elvira was enchanted to leave the schoolroom behind her, being fully aware that she always had more notice and indulgence from outsiders than at home, or indeed from anyone who had been disappointed at her want of all real affection. “You are just like a dragon fly,” said Babie to her; “all brightness outside and nothing within.” This unusually severe remark came from Babie’s indignation at Elvira’s rebellion against going to River Hollow to take leave. It would be a melancholy visit, for her grandfather had become nearly imbecile since he had had a paralytic stroke, in the course of the winter, and good sensible Mrs. Gould had died of fever in the previous autumn. Elvira, who had never liked the place, now loathed it, and did not seem capable of understanding Babie’s outburst. “Not like to go and see them when they are ill and unhappy! Elfie, how can you?” “Of course I don’t! Grandpapa kisses me and makes me half sick.” “But he is so fond of you.” “I wish he wasn’t then. Why, Babie, are you going to cry? What’s the matter?” “It is very silly,” said Babie, winking hard to get rid of her tears; “but it does hurt me so to think of the good old gentleman caring more for you than anybody, and you not liking to go near him.” “I can’t see what it matters to you,” said Elvira; “I wish you would go instead of me, if you are so fond of him.” “He wouldn’t care for me,” said Babie; “I’m not his ain lassie.” “_His_ lassie! I’m a lady,” exclaimed the senorita, with the haughty Spanish turn of the neck peculiar to herself. “That’s not what I mean by a lady,” said Babie. “What do you mean by it?” said Elvira, with a superior air. “One who never looks down on anybody,” said Babie, thoughtfully. “What nonsense!” rejoined the Elf; “as if any lady could like to hear grandpapa maunder, and Mary scold and scream at the farm people, just like the old peahen.” “Miss Ogilvie said poor Mary was overstrained with having more to attend to than she could properly manage, and that made her shrill.” “I know it makes her very disagreeable; and so they all are. I hate the place, and I don’t see why I should go,” grumbled Elvira. “You will when you are older, and know what proper feeling is,” said Miss Ogilvie, who had come within earshot of the last words. “Go and put on your hat; I have ordered the pony carriage.”