Stellamaris at once appreciated the theatrical side of the situation. She gripped the Great Dane by the dewlap in her fragile fingers. “Oh, you silly dear Lord High Constable! It 's his scent,” she explained. “Anything he finds in the house that I've worn, he always brings me. Susan has to lock her door against him. You were mending my lace?” “In the garden.” Stella laughed again. “Foolish Constable, I can see it all. What did you say your name was, my dear?” “Unity, m' lady.” “Then come here, Unity, and let us see whether Constable has utterly ruined the jacket. I did so want to wear it this afternoon.” Unity walked the two or three miles to the bedside, and took the jacket, and held it up for the inspection of four rueful eyes. There were great wet marks on it, of course, but these would dry. Otherwise no damage was done, Constable having carried it as tenderly as a retriever does a partridge. “How old are you, Unity?” asked Stella. “Nearly sixteen, m' lady.” “So am I. But how clever you must be to mend this! Now, when I try to sew, I make great big stitches that every one laughs at.” She examined the repairs that Unity had already executed. “I don't know when I've seen such beautiful work.” Unity's cheeks burned. Her heart was full. She could utter no word of reply to such graciousness. Tears started into her eyes. Her nose began to water; she wiped it with the back of her hand. There was a swish of stiff skirts at the door. Unity turned guiltily and beheld the nurse. Then, losing her head, she grabbed the dressing-jacket and bolted like a frightened hare. “What was that child doing in your room, darling?” Stellamaris explained more or less to the nurse's satisfaction. “But who is she?” Faithful to the Unwritten Law, the nurse lied. “Just a little girl from the village who has come in for the day to help with the sewing.” “I should like to see her again,” said Stella. “I'm sorry you can't, darling.” “Why?” “She is going to London for good this afternoon.” “I'm sorry,” said Stella.