“I am only fifty-two. I reckon I am not past bringin’ up a child. I ain’t quite got softenin’ of the brain, and if master Roger has a mind to keep the poor forsaken critter, it ain’t for them who isn’t his betters to go agin it. The owner of Millbank can do as he has a mind, and Roger is the master now, you know.” With this speech Hester whisked out of the room, casting a glance backward to see the effect of her parting shot on Mrs. Walter Scott. Perhaps it was the reflection of the fire or her scarlet shawl which cast such a glow on the lady’s white cheek, and perhaps it was what Hester said; but aside from the rosy flush there was no change in her countenance, unless it were an expression of benevolent pity for people who were so deluded as Mrs. Floyd and Roger. “Wait till to-morrow and you may change your opinion,” trembled on Mrs. Walter Scott’s lips, but to say that would be to betray her knowledge of what she meant should appear as great a surprise to herself as to any one. So she wrapped her shawl more closely around her, and leaned back languidly in her chair, while Hester went up the back stairs to an old chest filled with linen, and redolent with the faint perfume of sprigs of lavender and cedar, rose-leaves and geraniums, which were scattered promiscuously among the yellow garments. That chest was a sacred place to Hester, for it held poor Jessie’s linen, the dainty garments trimmed with lace, and tucks and ruffles and puffs, which the old Squire had bidden Hester put out of his sight, and which she had folded away in the big old chest, watering them with her tears, and kissing the tiny slippers which had been found just where Jessie left them. The remainder of Jessie’s wardrobe was in the bureau in the Squire’s own room,—the white satin dress and pearls which she wore in the picture,—the expensive veil, the orange wreath which had crowned her golden hair at the bridal, and many other costly things which the old man had heaped upon his darling, were all there under lock and key. But Hester kept the oaken chest, and under Jessie’s clothes were sundry baby garments which Hester had laid away as mementos of the happy days when Roger was a baby, and his beautiful mother the pride of Millbank and the belle of Belvidere. “If that child only stays one night, she must have a night-gown to sleep in,” she said, as with a kind of awe she turned over the contents of the chest till she came to a pile of night gowns which Roger had worn. Selecting the plainest and coarsest of them all, she closed the chest and went down stairs to the kitchen, where both the boys were bending over the settee and talking to the Baby. There was a softness in her manner now, something really motherly, as she took the little one, and began to undress it, with Roger and Frank looking curiously on.