Lady Curtis saw her coming from the window of the morning-room, and could not but make observations to herself upon the fine elastic figure, instinct she felt with some special energy, as the young stranger came up the avenue. What was it that made her walk to-day with such firm certainty and grace? usually there was a touch of shyness about her, almost awkwardness, the awkwardness which is a kind of grace in its way, the wavering of youth, not quite sure about its own movements. But Nancy was not thinking of her appearance, or that anyone was looking at her; but only of the great moment that was approaching. Lady Curtis came to the door of the morning-room to meet her, holding out her hand. “This is my pet room, my dear,” she said, smiling; “you must come here first. Sit down by the fire, and get thawed, and then you shall see everything. It is not according to the present taste, but for all that I am fond of it. Won’t you take off your cloak? We can put it here, or take it upstairs with us when we go. It must be very cold out of doors.” “Not when one is walking,” said Nancy, and as she put off her cloak, a little roll of paper became visible. “I brought you the--sketches,” she said, with a blush; “they are not worth calling patterns.” “They are a great deal better than patterns. _I_ call them drawings,” said Lady Curtis, with flattering kindness, spreading them out on the table. What pains Nancy had taken over them! and consequently they wanted the spontaneous grace of the first design, which Lady Curtis had so praised. But my lady applauded them as if they had come from the pencil of Raffaele himself, and showed her crewels and her pieces of work executed, which filled Nancy with awe. “Mine are not so good as these,” she said, shaking her head; “I will take them back and try to do better.” She was disappointed, and tears started suddenly to her eyes. But Lady Curtis took the drawings away carefully, and smiled and shook her head. “They are mine,” she said, “you have given them to me. Now look, here is my private picture-gallery, Mrs. Arthur; my son, whom you thought you had met, do you remember? You will be able to make sure by looking at his portrait; and Lucy--you know Lucy? I have been very extravagant about my children, here they are at all ages. Here is the first of my boy--and there is the last,” said Lady Curtis, pointing to a framed photograph on the table. She wondered that the visitor did not move to look at it. Nancy was holding the child’s miniature in her trembling hands. She could not have spoken or risen up to save her life. Look at him--she who belonged to him, to whom he belonged more than to his mother--she could not do it! There was something almost more than she could bear even in the child’s face.