Here she stopped, and looking alarmed at the group, at the boxes, at the blushing Lovel, at the pale countenance of the governess, “Gracious goodness!” she said, “what has happened? Tell me, Lizzy, what is it?” “Is this collusion, pray?” says ruffled Mrs. Bonnington. “Collusion, dear Mrs. Bonnington?” “Or insolence?” bawls out my lady Baker. “Insolence, your ladyship? What—what is it? What are these boxes—Lizzy’s boxes? Ah!” the mother broke out with a scream, “you’ve not sent the poor girl away? Oh! my poor child—my poor children!” “The Prince’s Theatre has come out, Mrs. Prior,” here, said I. The mother clasps her meagre hands. “It wasn’t the darling’s fault. It was to help her poor father in poverty. It was I who forced her to it. O ladies! ladies!—don’t take the bread out of the mouth of these poor orphans!”—and genuine tears rained down her yellow cheeks. “Enough of this,” says Mr. Lovel, haughtily. “Mrs. Prior, your daughter is not going away. Elizabeth has promised to stay with me, and never to leave me—as governess no longer, but as—” and here he takes Miss Prior’s hand. “His wife! Is this—is this true, Lizzy?” gasped the mother. “Yes, mamma,” meekly said Miss Elizabeth Prior. At this the old woman flung down her umbrella, and uttering a fine scream, folds Elizabeth in her arms, and then runs up to Lovel; “My son!” my son! says she (Lovel’s face was not bad, I promise you, at this salutation and salute). “Come here, children!—come, Augustus, Fanny, Louisa, kiss your dear brother, children! And where are yours, Lizzy? Where are Pop and Cissy? Go and look for your little nephew and niece, dears: Pop and Cissy in the schoolroom, or in the garden, dears. They will be your nephew and niece now. Go and fetch them, I say.” As the young Priors filed off, Mrs. Prior turned to the two other matrons, and spoke to them with much dignity: “Most hot weather, your ladyship, I’m sure! Mr. Bonnington must find it very hot for preaching, Mrs. Bonnington! Lor! There’s that little wretch beating my Johnny on the stairs. Have done, Pop, sir! How ever shall we make those children agree, Elizabeth?” Quick, come to me, some skillful delineator of the British dowager, and draw me the countenances of Lady Baker and Mrs. Bonnington! “I call this a jolly game, don’t you, Batchelor, old boy?” remarks the captain to me. “Lady Baker, my dear, I guess your ladyship’s nose is out of joint.” “O Cecilia—Cecilia! Don’t you shudder in your grave?” cries Lady B. “Call my people, Clarence—call Bulkeley—call my maid! Let me go, I say, from this house of horror!” and the old lady dashed into the drawing room, where she uttered, I know not what, incoherent shrieks and appeals before that calm, glazed, simpering portrait of the departed Cecilia.