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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id02082" style="margin-top: 2em">MRS. BUSBY'S HOUSE.</h4> By the beginning of the week Rotha had recovered command of herself, externally at least; and on the Monday Mr. Digby and his charge were to go to Mrs. Busby's. It was the first of November; dull, cloudy and cold; getting ready for snow, Mr. Digby said, to judge by the sky. From the clouds his eye came down to Rotha, who had just entered the room dressed for her departure. "Rotha," said he, "what is that you have on?" "My brown lawn, Mr. Digby." "Lawn? on such a day as this? You want a warmer dress, my child." Rotha hesitated and coloured. "My warm dresses—are not very nice," she said with some difficulty. "I thought I must look as well as I could." "And I have forgotten that the season was changing! and left you without proper provision. You see, Rotha, I never had the charge of a young lady before. Never mind, dear; that will soon be made right. But put on something warm, no matter how it looks. You will take cold with that thin dress." Rotha hesitated. "I don't think you will like it, if I put on my old winter frock," she said. "I would like it better than your getting sick. Change your dress by all means." When Rotha came in again, she was a different figure. She had put on an old grey merino, which had once belonged to her mother and had been made over for her. At the time she had rejoiced much over it; now Rotha had got a new standard for judging of dresses, and she seemed to herself very "mean" looking. Truly, the old grey gown had been made a good while ago; the fashion had changed, and Rotha had grown; it was scant now and had lost even a distant conformity with prevailing modes. Moreover it was worn, and it was faded, and it was not even very clean. Rotha thought Mr. Digby would hardly endure it; she herself endured it only under stress of authority. He looked at her a little gravely. "That's the best you have, is it? Never mind, Rotha; it is I who am to blame. I am very much ashamed of myself, for forgetting that winter was corning." He had never known what it was, in all his life, to want a thick coat or a thin coat and not find it in his wardrobe; and that makes people forget. "This will not do, do you think it will, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha tentatively. "Better than to have you get sick. It will keep you warm, will it not? and we will soon have you fitted up with better supplies." It was not time quite for the carriage to be at the door, and Mr. Digby sat down to a bit of drawing; he was making a copy for Rotha. Rotha stood by, doubtful and thoughtful. "Mr. Digby," she said at last shyly, "there is something I should like very much to ask." "Ask it, Rotha." "But I do not know whether you would like it—and yet I cannot know without asking—" "Naturally. What is it, Rotha?" "Mr. Digby, my mother hadn't anything at all, had she? Money, I mean." "Of late? No, Rotha, I believe not." The girl hesitated and struggled with herself. "I thought so," she said. "And while it was you, I didn't mind. But now,—how will it be, Mr. Digby?" Mr. Digby got at the sense of this by some intuition. "Who will be at the charge of your schooling, you mean? and other things? Certainly I, Rotha, unless your aunt wishes very decidedly that it should be herself." "She will not wish that," said the girl. "Then, Mr. Digby, when I am done with school—what am I to do? What do you want me to do? Because if I knew, I might work better to get ready for it." "Well," said Mr. Digby, making some easy strokes with his pencil, every one of which however meant something,—"there is generally something for everybody to do in this world; but we cannot always tell what, till the time comes. The best way is to prepare yourself, as far as possible, for everything." "But I cannot do that," said Rotha, with the nearest approach to a laugh that she had made since the previous Friday. "Yes, you can. First, be a good woman; and then, get all the knowledge and all the accomplishments, and all the acquirements, that come in your way. Drawing, certainly, for you have a true love for that. How is it with music? Are you fond of it?" "I don't know," Rotha said low. "Mr. Digby, can I not—some time—do something for you?" "Yes," said he, looking up at her with a laughing glance, "you can do all these things for me. I want you to be as good a woman, and as wise a woman, and as accomplished a woman, as you are able to become." "Then I will," said Rotha very quietly. The carriage came. Rotha covered up her old dress as well as she could under her silk mantle, very ill satisfied with the joint effect, She behaved very well, however; was perfectly quiet during the drive, and only once asked, "Mr. Digby, you said I might write to you?" "As often as you like. But you will see me too, Rotha, though not every day. If anything goes wrong with you, let me know." That was all; and then the carriage turned a corner and stopped in a street of high, regular, stately houses, with high flights of doorsteps. Poor Rotha felt her gown dreadfully out of place; but her bearing did not betray her. She was trying hard to form herself on Mr. Digby's model, and so to be even and calm and unimpassioned in her manners. Not easy, when a young heart beats as hers was beating then. They entered the house. Mrs. Busby was not in, the servant said; at the same time she opened the door of the parlour, and Mr. Digby and Rotha went in. Nobody was there; only the luxurious presence of warmth and colour and softness and richness, whichever way the girl looked. She tried not to look; she fixed her eyes on the glowing grate; while a keen sense of wrong and a bitter feeling of resentment and opposition swelled her heart. This was how her aunt lived! and her mother had done sewing for her bread, and not got it. If the flowers in the carpet had been living exotics, they would have thriven in the warm air that surrounded them, and feared no frost; and her mother's fire had been fed by charity! It was to the credit of Rotha's budding power of self-command that she shewed nothing of what she felt. She was outwardly calm and impassive. Then the heavy door was pushed inward and a figure appeared for which she was scarcely prepared. A young girl of about her own age, also a contrast. There was nothing but contrasts here. She was excessively pretty, and as lively as a soap bubble. Something of her mother's hardness of outlines, perhaps; but in that fifteen must needs be far different from fifty; and this face was soft enough, with a lovely tinting of white and red, charming little pearly teeth, a winning smile, and pretty movements. She was not so tall as Rotha; and generally they were as unlike as two girls could be. In dress too, as in everything else. This new-comer on the scene was as bright as a flower; in a new cashmere, fashionably made, of a green hue that set off the fresh tints of her skin, edged with delicate laces which softened the lines between the one and the other. She came in smiling and eager. "Mr. Southwode! how long it is since we have seen you! What made you stay away so? Mamma is out; she told me if you came I must see you. I am so sorry she is out! No, I am very glad to see you; but I know you wanted to see mamma. I'll do as well as I can." And she smiled most graciously on him, but hitherto had not looked at Rotha, though Mr. Digby knew one glance of her eye had taken her all in. "Miss Antoinette," said he, shaking hands with her, "this is your cousin." The eyes came round, the smile faded. "Oh!—" said she. "I knew it must be you. How do you do? Mamma is out; she'll be so sorry. But your room is ready. Would you like to go up to it at once, and take off your things?"—Then without waiting for an answer, she pulled the bell twice, and springing to the door cried out, "Lesbia! Lesbia!—Lesbia, where are you? O here you are. Lesbia, take this young lady—up stairs and shew her her room—you know, the little room that you put in order yesterday. Take her up there and shew her where things are; and then take her to mamma's room; do you understand? Miss Carpenter what is her name, Mr. Southwode? Rotha? O what a lovely name! Rotha, if you will go up stairs with the girl, she will shew you your way." "I will not go yet, thank you," said Rotha. Antoinette looked at her, seemingly taken aback at this. "Don't you want to go up and take off your things?" she said. "I think you will be more comfortable." "I would rather stay here." Mr. Digby suppressed a smile, and had also to suppress a sigh. This by- play was very clear to him, and gave him forebodings. He hoped it was not clear to Rotha. However, he did not much prolong his stay after that. He knew it was pain to Rotha and better ended; she must learn to swim in these new waters, and the sooner she was pushed from her hold the kinder the hard service would be. So he took leave of Miss Antoinette, and then, taking Rotha's cold hand, he did what he had never done before; stooped down and kissed her. He said only one word, "Remember!"—and went away. He had thought to give the girl a little bit of comfort; and he had not only comforted her, but lifted her up into paradise, for the moment. A whole flood tide of pleasure seemed to pour itself into Rotha's heart, making her deaf and blind to what was around her or what Antoinette said. She went up stairs like one on wings, with the blood tingling in every corner of her frame. If she had known, or if Mr. Digby had guessed, what that kiss was to cost her. But that is the way in this life; we start and shiver at the entrance of what is to be a path of flowers to our feet; and we welcome eagerly the sugared bait which is to bring us into a network of difficulty. There was an under current of different feeling however, in Rotha's mind; and the two girls as they went up stairs were as great a contrast to each other as could be imagined. The one carried a heart conscious of a secret and growing weight; the other had scarce gravity enough to keep her to the earth's surface. So the one tripped lightly on ahead, and the other mounted slowly, rebelling inwardly at every step she set her foot upon. What a long flight of stairs! and how heavily carpeted; and with what massive balusters framed in. Nothing like it had Rotha ever seen, and she set her teeth as she mounted. Arrived at last at the second floor, Antoinette passed swiftly along to the foot of another flight. "There is mamma's room," said she, pointing to an open door; "and that is mine," indicating a small room adjoining; "now here is yours." She had got to the top, and preceded Rotha into the small room off the hall at the head of the stairs. It was very small, of course; furnished with sufficient neatness, but certainly with old things. It was not like the rest of the house. That was no matter; the furniture was still as good as Rotha had been accustomed to in her best days, at home; yet she missed something. It looked poor and bare, and very cramped. Perhaps one reason might be, that the day was chill and dark and here were no signs of a fire, nor even a place to make one; and that luxury Rotha had never missed. Her mother and she had kept scant fires at one time, it is true; but since Mr. Digby had taken the oversight of their affairs, their rooms had been always deliciously warm. Anyhow, the place made a cheerless impression on Rotha. She took off her hat and mantle. "Where are they to go?" she asked her companion. "You can put the mantle in one of those drawers." "Not my hat, though." "Yes, you could, if you turn up the edges a little. O never mind; it'll go somewhere, and you can't wear that hat any longer now. It's too cold. Let us go down to mamma's room." This was the large front room on the second floor. Here was a warm fire, a cosy set of easy chairs, tables with work, a long mirror in the door of the wardrobe between the windows; a general air of comfort and household living. Antoinette's room opened into this, and the door stood thrown back, letting the fire warmth penetrate there also; and a handsome dressing table was visible standing before the window. Antoinette stirred the fire and sat down. Rotha stood at the corner of the hearth, charging herself to be cool and keep quiet. "Where did you come from?" Antoinette began cheerfully. "We might as well get acquainted." "Will that help you?" said Rotha. "Help me what?" "You said we might as well get acquainted." "Well I want to know where you come from, to be sure," said the other girl laughing. "I always want to know where people come from. It's one of the first things I want to know." "I come from Medwayville," said Rotha. "That is a place in the western part of the state." "But you don't come from there now. I know you did live in Medwayville. But where do you come from now?" There sprang up in Rotha's mind an instant and unwonted impulse of reserve; she hardly knew why. So she answered, "Mr. Digby brought me; he can tell you about the place better than I can." "Why, don't you know where you have been living?" "I know the place when I see it. I could not find my way to it." "Then you can't have the organ of locality. Do you know about organs, and bumps on the head? That's what is called phrenology. Mamma thinks a great deal of phrenology; she'll be examining your head, the first thing." "Examining my head!" "Yes, to find out what you are, you know. She has a little map, with everything marked on it? so she'll feel your head to see where the bumps are, and where she finds a bump she will look in her map to see what's there, and then she'll know you have it." "What?" said Rotha. "That; whatever the map says the bump ought to be." "There are no bumps on my head," said Rotha a little proudly; "it is quite round." "O you're mistaken; everybody has bumps; when the head is round, it means something, I forget what; whether bad or good. Mamma'll know; and she'll judge you by your head. How long have you known Mr. Southwode?" "I don't know." "Don't know how long you have known him?" "I do not know just how long it is." "O I didn't mean that. Have you known him a month?" "More than that." "How came you to know him at all?" "He came to see us?" "Us? You and aunt Eunice? What made him go to see you? at first, I mean." "How can I tell?" said Rotha, more and more displeased. "Well, do you like him?" The answer did not come suddenly. "Do I like Mr. Digby?" Rotha said slowly. "I think I do." "We do. What sort of a carriage was he in when he was overturned?" "A little phaeton." "One-horse?" "Yes." "Was he alone?" "No." "What became of the other person?" "Thrown out, like him." "Hurt?" "No." "Do you know who it was?" "Yes." "Who was it?" "It was I." "You?" exclaimed Antoinette. "Were you driving with Mr. Southwode? How came you to be going with him?" "Why should I not?" "Why—" with a glance at Rotha's dress. Rotha saw and understood, but would not enlighten her. "Did you ever go with him before?" "Yes." "How many times?" But Rotha was getting amused now, and was mistress of the situation. "Does it matter how many times?" she said quite unexcitedly. "He never took me anywhere," said Antoinette. "I declare, I'll make him. It isn't using me well. What makes you call him Mr. Digby?" "I have been accustomed to call him so." "Did he tell you to?" "Yes." "I wonder if he'd let me? I don't believe mamma would, though. She won't let you either do it any more. Digby is Mr. Southwode's first name. She would say it was too familiar, to call him by his first name, even with a 'Mr.' to it. Mamma's a little poky at times. But how did you come to know him first? you haven't told me." "I suppose, the same way you came to know him," said Rotha slowly. But the suggestion of anything similar in what concerned the social circumstances of her and her cousin, struck Antoinette with such a sense of novelty that, for a moment she was nonplussed. Then her eye fell upon the clock on the mantel-piece, and she started up. "I must rush right off," she said; "it is time for my drawing lesson. That's one thing I don't get in school. Have you ever been to school?" "No." "I suppose you don't know much, then. Won't you have to work, though! I am sorry I must go and leave you alone; but mamma will be in by and by." While she was speaking, Antoinette had been putting on her wraps to go out; handsome, ample, and becoming they were. A dark green cloak of some figured, lustrous stuff; a little green hat with a coquettish leather; gloves fitting nicely; and finally a little embroidered pocket- handkerchief stuffed into an outer pocket of her cloak. Then taking her portfolio, Antoinette hurried away. Rotha felt a sense of uneasiness growing upon her. She was not at home, and nothing promised her that she ever would be, in this house. For awhile she sat still where she was, looking and thinking; or rather feeling; for thought was scarcely organized. She was tired at last of the stillness, the ticking of the clock and the soft stir of the coals in the grate or falling of ashes into the pan. She went down to the parlour again, having a mind to become a little acquainted with her new surroundings while she could make her observations unobserved; and besides, that parlour was a study to Rotha; she had seen nothing like it. She went down and took her seat upon an ottoman, and surveyed things. How beautiful it all was, she thought; beyond imagination beautiful. The colours and figures in the carpet; the rich crimsons and soft drabs, and the thick, rich pile to the stuff, what a wonder they were to her. The window curtains, hanging in stately folds and draperies of drab, with broad bands of crimson satin shot through the tamer colour, how royal they were! And did anybody ever see anything so magnificent as the glass in the pier, which filled the space from floor to ceiling between those royal draperies? The furniture was dark and polished, as to the wood; covers of striped drilling hid what might be the beauty of cushions beneath, and Rotha was not one of the sort that can lift a corner to see what was hidden. There was enough not hidden, and she could wait. But as her eye roved from one thing to another, her heart gathered fuel for a fire that presently rivalled its more harmless neighbour in the grate; a fierce, steady, intense glow of wrath and indignation. This was how her mother's sister lived and had been living; and her mother in the poor little rooms in Jane Street. Magnificence and luxury here; and there toil and the bread of charity. And not a hand held out to help, nor love enough to be called upon for it. Rotha's heart fed its fire with dark displeasure. There was built up a barrier between her and her aunt, which threatened perpetual severance. Kindness might break it down; Rotha was open to kindness; but from this quarter she did not expect it. She bent her determination however on behaving herself so as Mr. Digby had wished. She would not shew what she thought. She would be quiet and polite and unexcited, like him. Poor Rotha! The fire should burn in her, and yet she would keep cool! She was studying the gas reading stand on the centre table, marvelling at the beauty of its marble shaft and the mystery of its cut glass shade, where bunches of grapes and vine leaves wandered about in somewhat stiff order; when the door of the room opened softly and Mrs. Busby came in. Rotha divined immediately that it was her aunt; the lady wore still the bonnet and the shawl in which she had been abroad, and had the air of the mistress, indefinable but well to be recognized. Softly she shut the door behind her and came towards the fire. Rotha did not dislike her appearance. The features were good, the eyes keen, the manner quiet "And this is my niece Rotha," she said with a not unkindly smile. "How do you do?" She took her hand and kissed her. Alas! the kiss was smooth ice. Rotha remembered the last kiss that had touched her lips; how warm and soft and firm too it had been; it meant something. This means nothing but civility, thought Rotha to herself. "You are all alone?" Mrs. Busby went on. "Antoinette had to go out. Shall we go up stairs, to my room? We never sit here in the morning." Rotha followed her aunt up stairs, where Mrs. Busby laid off hat and shawl and made herself comfortable, calling a maid to take them and to brighten up the fire. "I'll have luncheon up here, Lesbia," she said by the way. "Now Rotha, tell me all about yourself and your mother. I have heard nothing for a long while, unless from some third person." "Mother was ill a long time," said Rotha, uncertain how to render obedience to this command. "Yes, I know. When did you come to New York?" "It is—two years now." "Two years!" Mrs. Busby started up in her chair a little, and a faint colour rose in her cheeks; then it faded and her lips took a hard set. "Ill all that time?" "No. She was not ill for the first year." "Say, 'No ma'am,' my dear. That is the proper way. Do you know what induced her to move to New York, Rotha?" "Yes, ma'am," said Rotha colouring. "May I know?" "Didn't you know we were very poor?" said Rotha in a lower voice. "How was that the reason?" "We couldn't—I mean—she couldn't, get work at Medwayville." "Get work!" Mrs. Busby was silent. Perhaps that was an unfruitful, and would prove an unrefreshing, field of inquiry. She would leave it unexplored for the present. She paused a little. "So since then you have been living in New York?" "Yes." A longer pause followed. Mrs. Busby looked at the fire and raised one eyebrow. "Under whose care have you been living, my dear, since you lost your mother's?" Rotha hesitated. Great soreness of heart combined now with another feeling to make her words difficult. She did not at all want to answer. Nevertheless the girl's temper was to be frank, and she saw no way of evasion here. "I have had nobody but Mr. Digby," she said. "Mr. Digby! Mr. Southwode, you mean? That is his name, my dear; don't speak of him as 'Mr. Digby.'" Rotha's mouth opened, and closed. She was forming herself with all her might on Mr. Digby's model; and besides that, she was trying to obey his injunctions about pleasant behaviour. "Where have you lived all this time?" a little shorter than the former questions had been put. "Since we came to New York?" "No, no; since you have been under this gentleman's care? Where have you been?" "In a pleasant place near the river. I do not know the name of the street." "Who took care of you there, Rotha?" Rotha lifted her eyes. "Mr. Digby—Mr. Southwode." "Mr. Southwode! Did he live there himself?" "Yes, at that time; not always." "Near the river, and in New York?" said Mrs. Busby, mystified. "I did not say in New York. It was out of the city." "I was out of town," said Mrs. Busby musingly. "I wish I had come home earlier, that I might have received you at once. But I am glad I have got you now, my dear. Now you will have the pleasure of going to school with Antoinette. You will like that, won't you?" "I do not know, ma'am. I think so." "Why you want to learn, don't you? You don't want to be ignorant; and the only way is to go to school and study hard. Have you ever been to school at all?" "No, ma'am." "You will have a great deal to do. And the very first thing for me to do is to see to your wardrobe, that you may begin at once. Your box has come; I found it down stairs when I came in, and I had it taken right up to your room. Have you the key?" "Yes, ma'am." "Then go up, my dear, immediately; and bring down all your best dresses. Then I can see what is to be done." As Rotha went out, enter Antoinette. "O mamma, here you are! I'm glad, I'm sure. I don't want that young lady on my hands any more." "How do you like her, Antoinette?" "Mamma, did you ever see such a figure? You won't let her go down stairs till she is decently dressed, will you? I should be ashamed for even Lesbia to see her." "Lesbia has got to see her and make the best of it." "O but servants always make the worst of it. And company—she couldn't be seen by company, mamma. Why she looks as if she had come out of the year one. To have such a creature supposed to belong to us!" "Mr. Southwode brought her?" "Yes, mamma; and you should have seen the parting. I declare, it was rather striking! He kissed her, mamma, fancy! a real smacking kiss; and Rotha coloured up as if she was delighted. Did you ever hear anything like it?" "She has done with him now," said Mrs. Busby drily. "How'll you manage, mamma, if he comes and asks for her?" "Get your things off, Antoinette, and make yourself ready for dinner. Ah, here comes Rotha." Rotha's arms were full of muslin and lawn dresses, which she deposited on the table. Antoinette forgot or disregarded the order she had received and came to take part in the inspection. With a face of curiosity and business at once, Mrs. Busby unfolded, examined, refolded, one after another. "Mamma! how pretty that is!" exclaimed her daughter; "and that ashes of roses is lovely!" "Fine," said Mrs. Busby; "very fine. No sparing of money. Well made. Your mother cannot have felt herself in straits when she made such purchases as these, Rotha." Rotha's heart gave a bound, but she shut her lips and was silent. Some instinct within her was stronger than even the impulse to justify her mother. What did it matter, what her aunt thought? "These are all summer dresses," Mrs. Busby went on. "They are of no use at this season. Where are your warm clothes?" "I have none," said Rotha, with sad unwillingness. "This is the best I have on." "That?" exclaimed Mrs. Busby; and there was a pause. "Nothing better than that, my dear?" "The others are worse. They are all worn out." A heavy step was heard coming up the stair at this moment. It reached the landing place. "Mr. Busby—" cried the voice of his wife, a little uplifted, "don't come in here—I am engaged." "Very well, my dear," came answer in a husky, rough voice, and the step passed on. "The first thing is a school dress," Mrs. Busby proceeded. "Antoinette, fetch that purple poplin of yours, that you wore last winter, and let us see if that would not do, for a while at least, till something can be made." Nothing that fits her can fit me, thought Rotha; but with some self- command she kept her thoughts to herself. Antoinette brought the dress in question and held it up, chuckling. "It's about six inches too short, I should say, and wouldn't meet round the waist by three at least." "Try it on, Rotha." Very unwillingly Rotha did as she was told. Mrs. Busby pulled and twitched and stroked the dress here and there. "It is a little too short. Could be let out." "Then the marks of the gathers would shew, mamma." "That could be hidden by a basque." "There isn't much stuff left to make a basque. Miss Hubbell cut it all up for the trimming." "It could be made to do for a few days. I am anxious that Rotha should lose no time in beginning school. See, it is November now." All this was extremely distasteful to the subject of it. She knew right well that her cousin's dress could never be made to look as if it belonged to her, unless it were wholly taken to pieces and put together again; neither was the stuff of the dress very clean, and the trimmings had the forlorn, jaded look of a thing which has been worn to death. The notion of appearing in it revolted her unbearably. "Aunt Serena," she said, "I would just as lief wear my old dress, if you don't mind. It would do as well as this, and be no trouble." "Well—" said Mrs. Busby; "it would take some time, certainly, to fit Antoinette's to you; perhaps that is the best way; and it is only for a day or two; it wouldn't matter much. Well, then you may take these things away, Rotha, and put them by." "Where?" said Rotha. "In my trunk?" "Yes, for the present That will do." Rotha carried her muslins up stairs again, and had some ado not to sit down and cry. But she would not, and fought the weakness successfully down, appearing before her aunt again in a few minutes with an imperturbable exterior. Which she was able to maintain about ten minutes. Antoinette was dressing for dinner; dressing in front of her mother's fire; making herself rather striking in a blue silk, over which her long curling fair hair tumbled as over a pretty foil. Mrs. Busby also was putting herself in order. Rotha looked on. Presently the dinner bell rang. "I'll send you up your dinner, Rotha," Mrs. Busby said, turning to her niece. "Till we get some gowns made for you, you must keep in hiding. I'll send it up to you here, hot and nice." Rotha said not one word, but two flames shot into her cheeks, and from her dark eyes flared two such lightnings, that Mrs. Busby absolutely shrank back, and did not meet those eyes again while she remained in the room. But in that one moment aunt and niece had taken their position towards each other, and what is more, recognized it. "I shall have my hands full with that girl," Mrs. Busby muttered as she went down stairs. "Did you see how she looked at me?" "I didn't know she could look so," replied Antoinette. "Isn't she a regular spitfire?" "I shall know how to manage her," Mrs. Busby said, with her mouth set. "She is not at all like her mother." Rotha, left in the dressing room, sat down and laid her head on her arms on the table. Wrath and indignation were boiling within her. The girl dimly felt more than her reason could as yet grasp; somewhat sinister which ran through all her aunt's manner towards her and had undoubtedly called forth this last regulation. What did it mean? So she could go to school in her old dress and be seen by a hundred strange eyes, but might not sit at the table with her aunt's family and take her dinner in their company! And this was the very dress in which she had gone to the Park with Mr. Digby more than once. He had not minded it. And here there was nobody that had not seen it already, except Mr. Busby. Poor Rotha's heart, when once a passion of displeasure seized it, was like the seething pot in Ezekiel's vision. She was helpless to stay the outpour of anger and pride and grief and contempt and mortification, every one of which in turn came uppermost and took forms of utterance in her imagination. She had a firm determination to follow Mr. Digby's teaching and example; but for the present she was alone, and the luxury of passion might storm as it would. Upon this state of things came the dinner, borne by the hands of Lesbia, who was a very sable serving maid; otherwise very sharp. She set the tray on the table. Rotha lifted a white face and fiery eyes, and glared at it and at her. Gladly would she have sent it all down again; but she was hungry, and the tray steamed a pleasant savour towards her. "Thank you," said Rotha, with the courtesy she had learned of her friend. "Would you like anything else?" the girl asked with an observing look. "Nothing else, thank you." "Why aint miss down stairs with the rest?" "I couldn't go down to-day. That will do, thank you." Lesbia withdrew, and Rotha mustered her viands. A glass of water and a piece of bread, very nicely arranged; a plate with hot potatoes, turnips mashed, beets, and three small shrimps fried. Rotha cleared the board, and found the fish very small. By and by came up Lesbia with a piece of apple pie. She took the effect of the empty dishes. "Did miss have enough?" "It will do very well, thank you," said Rotha, attacking the piece of pie, which was also small. "Didn't you want a bit of the mutton?" "Mutton!" exclaimed Rotha, and again an angry colour shewed itself in her cheeks. "Roast mutton and jelly and sweet potatoes. You hadn't only fish, had ye? Don't ye like yaller potatoes? Car'lina potatoes?" "Yes, I like them," said Rotha indifferently. N. B. She had eaten them but a few times in her life, and thought them a prime delicacy. "I'll bring you some if you like, and some of the meat." "No, thank you," said Rotha, finishing her pie and depositing that plate with the rest. "You'll have time enough," said Lesbia sympathizingly. "They won't come up stairs; they stays down to see company." "No, thank you," said Rotha again; but a new pang seized her. Company! Mr. Digby would be company. What if he should come? Lesbia went off with the tray, after casting several curious glances at the new comer, whom she had heard talked of enough to give her several clues. Rotha was left in the darkening dressing room; for the afternoon had come to its short November end. <h4 id="id02309" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XIII.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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