laid down
for your education with a view to your future, I acted as I thought best
for your good."

Hetty said warmly, "I know--I am sure of that"; and then she began to
wonder at his curious manner of speaking, as if all his dealings with
her were in the past, and he had no longer any control over her. Could
it be, she asked herself, that Reine was going to take her and have her
taught to be an artist?

The thought was too delightful to be borne with, considering the
likelihood of disappointment. She tried to put it out of her head, and
listened to Mr. Enderby as he talked to her of Westminster Abbey and the
Tower.

That afternoon about five o'clock, in a certain handsome drawing-room in
Portland Place, Reine was flitting about restlessly with flushed cheeks,
now re-arranging the roses in some jar, now picking up her embroidery
and putting a few stitches in it, then going to the window and looking
out. The afternoon tea equipage was on a little table beside her, but
she did not help herself to a cup. She was evidently waiting for some
one.

At last there was a sound of wheels stopping, and Reine's trembling
hands dropped her work into her basket. A ring came to the door, and
Reine was in the middle of the room, pressing her hands together, and
listening to the closing of the door with impatient delight.

"Miss Helen Gaythorne!" announced the servant, who knew that his
mistress's young sister was expected, and who had not asked Hetty for
her name. In the excitement of the moment Hetty heard, but hardly
understood the announcement. She thought the servant had made a curious
blunder.

"Mr. Enderby will come in the evening," began Hetty advancing shyly, and
then, as the servant disappeared, she raised her eyes and saw Reine.

"Hetty--Helen! my darling! my sister!" cried Reine, snatching her into
her arms and laughing and crying on her shoulder.

"Sister?" murmured Hetty breathlessly, feeling quite stunned. "Oh, Miss
Gaythorne, what are you saying?"

"Do you mean that they have not told you?" cried Reine, covering her
face with kisses.

"Some kind of a relation," murmured Hetty, "that was what they told me.
Oh, Miss Gaythorne, think of what you have said! Do not make fun of me,
I cannot bear it."

"Fun of you! Why, Hetty, Helen! I tell you, you are my sister. My
ownest, dearest, darlingest daughter of my mother--the mother you are so
like!"

"But how--how can it be?" asked Hetty with a look almost of terror