“Yes, do; and I will send for her at half-past one, because it is nearly half-an-hour’s walk. Good-by, good-by! I must make peace as I can with Mademoiselle.” And she left me with an engaging smile. * * * * * Arbell has been, and gone. She came in rather before eleven, carrying her little white lap-dog, who had a new scarlet ribbon round his neck. I saw directly that the cloud was gone,—she looked as fresh as a rose, and as cheerful as a lark. “Good girl, for being so punctual,” said I. “Punctual!” said she. “Why, I hope I’m more than that, or Shock and I have raced in vain! I would not let old John come with me more than half way, and then we took to our heels and ran—didn’t we, Shock?” “I feel the compliment,” said I, very sincerely. “Perhaps, though, you would as soon have run in any other direction.” “No, I shouldn’t,” said she, with a bright look, as she untied the blue strings of her large straw hat, and threw it on the ground. The next minute she picked it up, and put it, with her gloves and visite, on a side-table. “Why did you do that?” said I, curiously. “Because you are not Mademoiselle. She says I never can be tidy, but you see I can.” “What people can be, they ought to be,” said I. “What people can be at some times they can’t be at others,” said Arbell. “Is it not so, Mrs. Cheerlove?” “Yes, my love, sometimes.” “Thank you for calling me ‘my love.’” “By-the-by, why do they abbreviate your name into Arbell?” “Because an ugly name is good enough for an ugly girl,” said Arbell, quickly; and then, with a little self-reproach for so captious a speech, “No, the real reason is, because it is the abbreviation by which the celebrated Lady Arabella Stuart was called by her grandmother, the old Countess of Shrewsbury. Mamma read about her in Miss Strickland’s “Queens,” I believe, and so took a fancy to call me Arbell.” “Though you do not like it.” “I like whatever mamma likes, almost.” “I am very glad to hear you say so, my love. Are you hungry?” She looked at me artlessly, and said, “I should like a slice of bread-and-butter.” “Or jam?” said I. “No, bread-and-butter. I should only have dry bread in the school-room—and scarcely that, because Mademoiselle says we ought not to be hungry before an early dinner.” “But you have had a walk,” said I, ringing the bell; “and persons who have left off growing sometimes forget how hungry they were when they were not full-grown.” “_You_ don’t.” “Ah,” said I, “young people only come to me by way of a treat—to me and to themselves. If you were with me much, I’m afraid I should spoil you.” “What _is_ spoiling, Mrs. Cheerlove?” “Can you ask?” “I know what it is in the common acceptation of the word—it is what Mademoiselle does to Flora: she spoils her by letting her have her own way; but she spoils me by _never_ letting me have mine!” “It is easy to see, Arbell, that you are not very fond of Mademoiselle.” “How _can_ I be?”