'I really think you might let me tell Mrs. Griswold,' said Mrs. Jenkins; 'you have no notion how kind she is, and how free from nonsense and pretence of all sorts. Her heart would be touched if I told her how we two were left poor motherless children to the care of our old aunt, who pushed us out into the world when we were almost babies, to do the best we could each for ourselves, and how you did the best, and it was very good, and I did--well, not quite the worst after all.' A sweet smile, though sad, passed over the frank features of the speaker, a spark of the ever-burning lamp of life within her, that light which glorified even so mean an object as Ephraim Jenkins. 'Good Heavens,' thought Miss Montressor, 'she actually believes in that vagabond still, and is as fond of him as ever; she is perfectly incorrigible!' She did not give utterance to these sentiments, but took a most affectionate leave of her sister, even bestowing some transient expressions of admiration upon little Mary Griswold, who was wide awake by this time, and staring about her with a greedy curiosity which succeeds the first stages of stolid indifference incidental to babyhood. She did not kiss the child, she was not quite equal to that--Mrs. Jenkins wondered how she could deny herself the indulgence--but she patted her and chirped to her, and sent her sister away delighted with her amiability and her affability. How hard it was for Bess to keep from talking of her visit when she went to assist at Mrs. Griswold's evening toilette nobody but Bess knew. When Mrs. Griswold had gone down-stairs, and driven away in the carriage which her friends had brought to fetch her, arrayed and looking very handsome in the pale blue velvet gown, with the guipure trimming, in the gold ornaments, and carrying her blue-and-gold fan, Mrs. Jenkins indemnified herself for the unnatural restraint by talking rapturously to the baby.