“No, madam. My mother died young. My father lived to give me a good education, and then died insolvent, leaving me dependent upon my own exertions when I was less than sixteen years old. My father was a tradesman, humbly born, madam, but he was a gentleman at heart--” “So poor Clara said. Humph! So you’ve no relatives living, eh?” “None whom I know, madam. The present holder of my grandfather’s estate in Hampshire is my distant relative, but he knows as little of me as I know of him. And--and,” added Lally, suddenly trembling, as if a suspicion of the truth were dawning upon her soul, “I have a great-aunt living in London--she was my mother’s aunt--who married a banker, and is now a widow, if she still lives. She must be very old.” “About my age!” said Mrs. Wroat, her eyes snapping. “Just about my age. What was her name?” “Her name was Maria Percy, when a girl. She was married many years before my mother was born, and she was my mother’s god-mother. I don’t know her married name. If I ever heard it, I have forgotten it.” “Then I’ll tell it to you,” said the old lady. “Her present name is Maria Wroat. Her home is in Mount street, London. And at this moment she sits before you, taking stock of you.” Lally grew pale, and her black eyes opened to their widest extent. “You--you my aunt?” she ejaculated. “So it seems, my dear. I’ve been searching for you for some time. And so you are Clara’s child? You may kiss me if you want to, my dear.” Lally approached the old lady with some hesitation, and bestowed a kiss upon the proffered wrinkled cheek. Then she shrank back in a sort of affright, wondering at her own temerity. “Sit down,” said the old lady kindly. “I have a few questions to ask you, and on your answers depend more than you know of. Peters, don’t stare the poor child out of countenance. Girl, how old are you?” “Seventeen years, ma’am.” “And I’m eighty--one of us at the beginning, the other at the end of life! Heigh-ho! And so you’re governess here?” Lally replied in the affirmative. “No wonder you look sorrowful and pale and woe-begone!” muttered Mrs. Wroat. “To be governess of the young Blights is a horrible martyrdom. Don’t you think so? And isn’t it martyrdom to be under the orders of that odious, vulgar, garrulous Mrs. Blight? Hey?” “When I came here,” said Lally agitatedly, “I had no home on earth. I was out of money, out of clothes, and utterly friendless. And so, madam, I am very grateful to Mrs. Blight for shelter and a home, and I cannot consider any service that gives me these a martyrdom.” “Grateful, eh? What have you to be grateful for?” asked the old lady cynically. “You have shelter and food, but you earn them, I’ll be bound. You work early and late for the pitiful sum of forty pounds a year. That is what you get, is it not?” “No, ma’am. I am young and inexperienced, and I needed the place so much, so I get but twenty pounds a year.”