"Not likely," said Seth, good-humouredly. "--But for the sake of the pretty little one you call the Duchess. And that's puzzled me. I'd take it as a favour if you'd tell me, why Duchess?" "Well, it was a fancy of Sally's," said Seth, "who worships the Duchess----" "It's plain enough that she thinks a mighty deal more of her than she does of herself." "That she does. Well, the Duchess came to me in a strange way that'll take too long to explain here. The child was left in our neighbourhood in a most mysterious manner--brought in mysteriously, deserted mysteriously. She and Sally were thrown together, and Sally adopted her, if one helpless mite can be said to adopt another helpless mite. Sally's mother fell into misfortune, and the children happened to drop in my way. Sally had a name--the other one didn't--and one night we had a curious little party of children in my cellar----" "In your cellar?" "I live in a cellar in Rosemary Lane--and Sally, quite seriously, put the fancy in my head of calling the child the Duchess of our quarter. All the neighbours take to it kindly, and everyone that knows her loves her. Look there. Who could help being attracted to her?" The wagoner looked up at the window of the children's room, and saw the Duchess standing within a framework of dark-green ivy leaves. The light was shining full upon her beautiful face, and touched, also, the darker face of Sally, who stood at the back of the Duchess, looking over her shoulder. "It's a picture one don't often see," said the wagoner, with a thoughtful air; "but if I had my choice of the two girls for a daughter, I reckon I'd choose the dark-skinned one." It did not displease Seth to hear this, for Sally and the Duchess really occupied an equal place in his heart. If the beauty of the Duchess awoke the tenderness of his nature, the devotion, unselfishness, and many rare qualities displayed by Sally were no less powerful in their effect upon his sympathies. Bearing in mind the scene that had occurred at Springfield on the preceding evening, he asked the wagoner, if any inquiries were made of him, not to divulge where he and the children were rusticating. "I've brought them into the country," he said, "as much for peace and quietness as for fresh air." There was to the wagoner's mind something suspicious both in the words and the nervous manner in which Seth made the request. He showed in his countenance the impression he received, and Seth, wishing to stand well with him, gave an account of the incident which had so disturbed him. "When I heard the lady say she would like to buy my child," he said, in conclusion, "it seemed to me that she had so much faith in the power of money, and so little in the power of love, that I could not keep my temper. I spoke hotly, and with reason, I think." "It would have roused my blood," responded the wagoner; "you never saw any of the gentlefolk before?"