For a moment Mrs. Stubbs gasped, much as she might have done if the older woman had dashed a pail of water in her face; but she took the hint with a very good grace, and turned to Sarah again. "Your pore ma, my dear, was Stubbs’ own sister," she said. "Then Mr. Stubbs is my uncle--my own uncle?" Sarah asked. "Your own uncle, and I’m your aunt; not your own aunt, of course, Sarah, but that’s no matter. I’ve a good and a feeling ’eart, whatever other faults I may have to carry; and what’s Stubbs’ flesh and blood is my flesh and blood, and so you’ll find. Besides, I’ve seven children of my own, and my ’eart feels for them that has no father nor mother to stand by ’em. And I believe in sticking to your own--everybody’s not like _that_, Sarah, though maybe I say it that shouldn’t. There is folks that believes in wearing yourself to the bone for other people’s advantage, and letting your own flesh and blood starve in the gutter, so to speak. Ah, well, I ain’t one of that sort, and I’m thankful for it, Sarah." Poor little desolate Sarah, with her suddenly empty life and great aching void in her heart, crept a shade closer to her new-found aunt, and rested her tired head against her substantial arm. "And I have seven cousins of my own?" she said, the shadows in her eyes clearing away for a moment. "_Seven_ cousins of your own!" cried Mrs. Stubbs, in an ecstasy of enjoyment. "_Seven_, Sarah, my dear! Why, I have seven children!" "And have I some more aunts and uncles?" Sarah asked, feeling not a little bewildered. "Why, dear, yes, three aunts and two uncles on your pore ma’s side, to say naught of all there may be on your pa’s side, with which I’m not familiar," said Mrs. Stubbs, with a certain air such as conveyed to Sarah that her ignorance was a decided loss to her father’s family in general. "There’s your Uncle Joe--he ’as five boys, and lives at ’Ampstead; and there’s your Uncle George--he ’as only three girls, and lives in great style at Brighton. He’s in the corn trade, is your Uncle George." Instinctively Sarah realized why once, when they had been going to the seaside for a fortnight, her father had said, "No, no, not Brighton," when that town was suggested; and as instinctively she kept the recollection to herself. "And then there’s Polly--your Aunt Mary, Sarah! She’s the fine lady of the family--very ’aughty, she is, though her and me ’as always been very good friends, always. Still, she’s uncommon ’aughty, and maybe she ’as a right, for she married a gentleman in the City, and keeps her carriage and pair and a footman, too. Ah, well! she ’asn’t a family, ’asn’t Mrs. Lennard; perhaps if she ’ad ’ad seven children, like me, she’d have ’ad to be content with a broom, as I am." "We have a broom, too," said Sarah, watching the visitor stir her tea round and round; "indeed, we have two, and a very old one that Jane uses to sweep out the yard with."