Frid’s hand was held out in reply, and little Dorathie, understanding the gesture, sidled along the window-seat until she reached her sister in the opposite corner. There, nestled up close to Frideswide, and held fast by her arm, Dorathie put the melancholy question which was troubling her repose. "Frid, be you going hence?—verily going?" The answering nod was a decided affirmative. "But both of you?—both thee and Agnes?" Another silent, uncompromising nod from Frideswide. "O Frid, I shall be all alone! Whatever must I do?" And the tears came running from the blue eyes. "Serve my Lady my grandmother," Frideswide whispered back. "But that is—only—being useful," sobbed Dorathie, "and I—want to—be happy." "Being useful is being happy," said her sister. "I would being happy were being useful," was Dorathie’s lugubrious answer. "They never go together—not with me." "So do they alway with me," replied Frideswide. "Oh, thou! Thou art a woman grown," said Dorathie with a pout. "Right an old woman," said Frideswide with a sparkle of fun in her eyes, for she was not quite twenty. Dorathie was only eight, and in her estimation Frideswide had attained a venerable age. "But list, Doll! My Lady calleth thee." Dorathie’s sobs had attracted the notice of one of the four grown-up persons assembled round the fire. They were two ladies and two gentlemen, and the relations which they bore to Dorathie were father, mother, grandmother, and grand-uncle. It was her grandmother who had called her—the handsome stately old lady who sat in a carved oak chair on the further side of the fire. Her hair was silvery white, but her eyes, though sunken, were lively, flashing dark eyes still. Dorathie slipped down from the window-seat, crossed the large room, and stood before her grandmother with clasped hands and a deferential bob. She was not much afraid of a scolding, for she rarely had one from that quarter: still, in the days when girls were expected to be silent statues in the august presence of their elders, she might reasonably have feared for the result of her whispered colloquy with Frideswide. "What ails my little Doll?" gently asked the old lady. "An’t please your good Ladyship, you said Frid and Annis[#] should both go away hence." [#] Annis, or more correctly Anneyse, is the old French form of Agnes, and appears to have been used in the Middle Ages, in England, as an affectionate diminutive. Some have supposed Annis to be a variety of Anne, and have therefore concluded that Anne and Agnes were considered the same name. This, I think, is a mistake. Annas is the Scottish spelling. "We did, my little maid. Is our Doll very sorry therefor?" "I shall be all alone!" sobbed Dorathie. "’All alone!’" repeated her grandmother with a smile, which was pitying and a little sympathetic. "Little Doll, there be fourteen in this house beside Frideswide and Agnes." "But they are none of them _them_!" said Dorathie.