“If Miss Lalla Bird will apply to the undersigned she will hear of something to her advantage. M. W., Mount street, London, W.” “That will do,” cried Mrs. Wroat delighted. “M. W.--Maria Wroat. Very good. We’ll have it in all the London papers. Make a dozen copies of it, and address them to a dozen different papers. You shall get the post-office orders to put with them in the morning. But let us see if the advertisement wants any improving. Read it again.” The maid did so. As she concluded, and before she could speak, the advertisement was answered, for a low knock was heard at the door, and the young governess, in her black dress and with her young face pitiful in its sadness, entered the room, and said shyly and with a low courtesy: “If you please, ma’am, I’m the governess, and Mrs. Blight sent me in to play to you. My name is Miss Bird.” CHAPTER IV. LALLY AND MRS. WROAT. The simple and business-like announcement of her name by Mrs. Blight’s young governess to Mrs. Blight’s eccentric guest, produced a sensation as startling as unexpected to Lally. Mrs. Wroat uttered a strange exclamation, and leaned forward on her staff, her black eyes staring at the young girl in a piercing gaze, her hooked nose and her chin almost meeting, and her shrivelled lips mumbling excitedly an inaudible whisper. The old lady’s eagerness and agitation was shared by her maid, who stared at Lally with a wondering and incredulous gaze. “Who--who did you say you were?” demanded Mrs. Wroat, as soon as she could speak, in cracked, hoarse tones--“_Who?_” “I am Mrs. Blight’s governess, ma’am,” replied Lally wonderingly, and concluding that Mrs. Wroat’s eccentricities verged upon madness. “Yes, yes, I know,” cried the old lady impatiently, “but who are you?” “Nobody, ma’am--only Lally Bird, the governess.” “Ah-h!” said the old lady, in an odd, choked voice. “Lal-Lally Bird! Lord bless my soul, Peters!” Mrs. Wroat looked at the young governess with such a queer snap in her eyes, and such a glow on her sallow, withered face, that Lally involuntarily retreated a step toward the door. “It’s the young lady, ma’am,” whispered Peters, full of amazement. “Whatever does it mean? It’s like magic or sorcery.” “It means that our advertisement is already answered,” returned Mrs. Wroat grimly. “Saved the post-office orders, Peters. I believe in advertising, Peters. We’ve just seen the benefit of it.” Lally retreated another step toward the door. “If you please, ma’am,” she said, in a little fluttering voice, “I will come and play for you later--” “No you won’t!” interrupted Mrs. Wroat. “Now you are here, you’ll stay here till I am through with you. Do you know who I am?” Lally brought to her support a pretty, girlish dignity which sat well upon her round gipsy face. “Yes, madam,” she answered; “you are Mrs. Wroat, the aunt of Mr. Blight.” “Wrong. I am only his uncle’s widow. Come under the chandelier.”