"A maid!" exclaimed Olive, feeling blank for a moment. Did she want a maid? No; of course she didn't. Ernestine would have taken a maid; oh, yes; and no one would ever thought but what she had had a maid and untold luxuries all her life. But she--"No, I don't want any maid," she said, almost sharply; then laughed as Jean looked grieved at the quick tone. "What would I do with a maid, Jeanie? She would know a great deal more what to do than I, and that would never do, you know. Besides, I'm too used to dressing myself. Do all young ladies in Virginia have maids?" "All the rich ones, I guess. Miss Franc Murray,--she is going to marry Cousin Roger, Bettine says; she has one, and scolds her like everything when her hair isn't just right." "Why, how do you know?" laughed Olive. "I've been there lots of times. She comes here for me, and tells Uncle Ridley she loves me dearly; but Olive--" "Yes." "When she comes, she stays just as long as she can; and if Cousin Roger isn't around, she asks me where he is, and all about him; then I have to promise never to tell." "But you are telling me." "Oh, do you think that counts?" cried Jean in alarm. "She didn't ever mean you; but then, perhaps, I better not tell any more until I ask her, for I might break my word." Olive could not resist kissing the childish, innocent face that looked more like a little angel's than a child of nearly twelve. Surely, no matter how Jean was surrounded, she would always retain that childish sweetness and purity, that had always made her seem more of heaven than earth. Before she left Congreve Hall, Olive many times wondered that the child was not spoiled, for her slightest wish was law, from the owner down to the last servant therein. When the bell rang for tea, it broke in upon an earnest cosy chat between the sisters, and made them reluctant to leave their seat in the twilight; but Mr. Congreve was punctual to the letter, and required the same of others, so Jean led the way in a moment, and together they descended the stairs and entered the room. "Here you are, with your face clean, and a posy in your hair," cried Mr. Congreve, from his stand on the rug. "Fine looking girl, you are, my dear, and a Congreve every inch of you. Come here, and shake a paw with your Uncle Ridley." Olive did so, and conscious that another gentleman was standing outside the circle of light, and doubtless regarding her as she crossed the room to "shake a paw," she advanced, and tried not to think whether she was doing so gracefully or not. "That's the way," exclaimed Mr. Congreve, drawing her into the brightest light. "Roger, here is your Cousin Olive, and Olive, this is Roger Ridley Congreve at your service, and we will suppose that you are cousins, for the want of a better name. Now shake hands and be friends, children."