s Arthur," she said; and it was almost
timidly that she spoke, for she was almost as much afraid of her little
nephew, as he was of her. "Ronald, he is a great deal more like Louisa
than you. His eyes are like hers."

"Yes, I believe he is generally considered to be so," said Mr. Vivyan,
smiling. "A great compliment; don't you think so yourself, Arthur?"

Arthur always had a very peculiar feeling when people looked at him, and
said who he was like. He did not very much approve of it on the whole; and
once he had confidentially asked his mother why the ladies and gentlemen
who came to Ashton Grange did not make remarks about her face, and say who
they thought she was like. At present he was making use of his blue eyes
in taking an accurate account of his aunt.

Well, she was nice. Yes, he thought he should love her. She had a sweet
sound in her voice, and a gentle expression about her mouth, that made him
think she could not be unkind. She was not like his own mother in the
least; she was not nearly so pretty, Arthur thought. His mother had pink
on her cheeks, and a smile on her lips; but _her_ face was very pale and
colourless, her eyes were very deep and sad ones, and when she looked at
him they seemed so large and dark, and as if they were saying what she did
not speak with her lips. He felt he would love his aunt; but he was not
quite sure that he would not be a little afraid of her, at first at any
rate.

"You must be quite ready for something to eat," said Mrs. Estcourt, as she
led the way to the drawing-room. "You dined before you came away, Ronald,
of course."

"Yes, I did; but Arthur did not. I don't think he has had much to eat all
day, poor boy."

Mrs. Estcourt looked very much surprised as she said, "Why, how could that
be, Arthur? I thought boys were always hungry."

"Well, I think I am generally," said Arthur, "only I was not to-day."

"Why not?" said his aunt.

"Don't ask me why, please," said Arthur in a low voice, "or else perhaps I
might cry, and I don't want to do that."

She seemed to understand him, for she asked no more questions; only she
took his hand as they went into the drawing-room, and as Arthur looked in
her face, he thought there was something in her deep eyes, that reminded
him of his mother.

If the hall at Myrtle Hill was neat and orderly, the drawing-room surely
was equally so. There seemed to be everything in the room, that one could
possibly want; and a great many that se