Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the man with the harpsichord, a handsome new instrument, which they placed in our parlor. Mrs. Thorpe followed with her arms full of music-books, and bringing with her a tall white-haired old gentleman, whom she introduced as Mr. Lilburne. I took a great liking to him at once. He examined the harpsichord, pronounced it a fine one and in perfect tune, and, at Mrs. Thorpe's request, played some airs, which he said were from Mr. Handel's oratorio of the Messiah. Finding that we could read music and had some knowledge of the theory, he gave us a lesson, promising to call the next day but one and hear us play it. This was destined to be a day of surprises. Amabel was carefully playing over her lesson, and I was busily working at my lace piece, when we heard some one coming up stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe herself throwing open the door announced, with some trepidation— "Mrs. Deborah Leighton—your aunt, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, Mrs. Amabel." We both rose to our feet with a start and curtsied to the tall lady in a riding habit who stood in the door. Mrs. Deborah was the oldest of the ladies at Highbeck Hall, and was at that time turned of fifty. She wore her own gray hair without powder, turned up under a man's beaver with a handsome feather and gold clasp. I had never seen a riding habit near at hand at that time, and the coat and waistcoat, almost exactly like a man's, with the deep-laced pockets and cravat, struck me with surprise. Mrs. Deborah wore large gold ear-rings, and the seals of a watch dangled below her waistcoat. In her hand she carried a riding whip with a silver handle. "There, don't come too near me, girls! I don't suppose there is any infection about me, but it is best to be safe," she said, speaking in a strong deep voice, which yet had a certain music in it. "I need not ask which is which. This, I am sure, is Amabel, from her looks, and this Cornish girl is Lucy Corbet. You are your father's girl, child, as Amabel is her mother's," looking at me with a curious contraction of her mouth, as of one in momentary pain. "Your father was a goodly and gallant man, child. I knew him well. And your mother was one of whom the world was not worthy. There, be a good girl and you shall never want a friend while I live. And you are Amabel, eh!" turning to her. "You are a beauty like your mother, but beauty is a fading flower—you know that, don't you?" "Yes, madam," answered Amabel. "Well, and how do you find yourselves? I will sit with you a little, seeing I am here, and my good friend, Mrs. Thorpe, will send me a glass of ale." Mrs. Thorpe withdrew on this hint, and Mrs. Deborah seated herself near the door and continued her catechism. "There, there, sit down—" For, of course, we had remained standing. "And how do you find yourselves? Are you comfortable here?" "Yes, madam, we are very happy here," Amabel answered.