ixed French
and Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whom
more than one wrote _de_ before his name, and called himself noble.

That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet the
coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I sat
alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton being
absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the country.
My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed. It was a
wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angry and
restless.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. "What weather for
her journey! I wish she were safe here."

A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No sooner
was the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk
and some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and
at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his
arms.

"Is that the child?" I asked.

"Yes, miss."

I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, but
it was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.

"Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren opened the
drawing-room door, "and take off this shawl," continued the speaker,
extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious
haste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared made
a deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too heavy
and large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms. "Give it
to Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and she can put it away."
This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Bretton.

"Come here, little dear," said that lady. "Come and let me see if you
are cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire."

The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appeared
exceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,
light, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, she
looked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,
increased, I thought, the resemblance.

Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child's
hands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,
but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generally a
caressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner was
rarely sentimental, often