d none
other, and she performed her devotions bravely and cheerily, in the
light of day. The poor old fetish had been so caressed and manipulated,
so thrust in and out of its niche, so passed from hand to hand, so
dressed and undressed, so mumbled and fumbled over, that it had lost by
this time much of its early freshness, and seemed a rather battered
and disfeatured divinity. But it was still brought forth in moments of
trouble to have its tinseled petticoat twisted about and be set up
on its altar. Rowland observed that Mrs. Light had a genuine maternal
conscience; she considered that she had been performing a sacred duty in
bringing up Christina to set her cap for a prince, and when the future
looked dark, she found consolation in thinking that destiny could never
have the heart to deal a blow at so deserving a person. This conscience
upside down presented to Rowland's fancy a real physical image; he was
on the point, half a dozen times, of bursting out laughing.

"I don't know whether you believe in presentiments," said Mrs. Light,
"and I don't care! I have had one for the last fifteen years. People
have laughed at it, but they have n't laughed me out of it. It has been
everything to me. I could n't have lived without it. One must believe in
something! It came to me in a flash, when Christina was five years old.
I remember the day and the place, as if it were yesterday. She was a
very ugly baby; for the first two years I could hardly bear to look at
her, and I used to spoil my own looks with crying about her. She had an
Italian nurse who was very fond of her and insisted that she would grow
up pretty. I could n't believe her; I used to contradict her, and we
were forever squabbling. I was just a little silly in those days--surely
I may say it now--and I was very fond of being amused. If my daughter
was ugly, it was not that she resembled her mamma; I had no lack of
amusement. People accused me, I believe, of neglecting my little girl;
if it was so, I 've made up for it since. One day I went to drive on the
Pincio in very low spirits. A trusted friend had greatly disappointed
me. While I was there he passed me in a carriage, driving with a
horrible woman who had made trouble between us. I got out of my carriage
to walk about, and at last sat down on a bench. I can show you the spot
at this hour. While I sat there a child came wandering along the path--a
little girl of four or five, very fantastically dressed in crimso