ce; it's n-a-a-sty! I won't have
syrup. I _will_ have dinner." The mother, whose embraces the child
repelled with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, rang them all
four vehemently, and ran downstairs towards the parlour, whence Miss
Honeyman was issuing.

The good lady had not at first known the names of her lodgers, until one
of the nurses intrusted with the care of Master Alfred's dinner informed
her that she was entertaining Lady Ann Newcome; and that the pretty girl
was the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the little Alfred of whom
his cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made a hundred little drawings in
his rude way, as he drew everybody. Then bidding Sally run off to St.
James Street for a chicken, she saw it put on the spit, and prepared a
bread sauce, and composed a batter-pudding, as she only knew how to make
batter puddings. Then she went to array herself in her best clothes, as
we have seen; then she came to wait upon Lady Ann, not a little flurried
as to the result of that queer interview; then she whisked out of the
drawing-room, as before has been shown; and, finding the chicken roasted
to a turn, the napkin and tray ready spread by Hannah the neat-handed,
she was bringing them up to the little patient when the frantic parent
met her on the stair.

"Is it--is it for my child?" cried Lady Ann, reeling against the
bannister.

"Yes, it's for the child," says Miss Honeyman, tossing up her head. "But
nobody else has anything in the house."

"God bless you! God bless you! A mother's bl--l-ess-ings go with you,"
gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a woman of strong
moral character.

It was good to see the little man eating the fowl. Ethel, who had never
cut anything in her young existence, except her fingers now and then with
her brother's and her governess's penknives, bethought her of asking Miss
Honeyman to carve the chicken. Lady Ann, with clasped hands and streaming
eyes, sat looking on at the ravishing scene.

"Why did you not let us know you were Clive's aunt?" Ethel asked, putting
out her hand. The old lady took hers very kindly, and said, "Because you
didn't give me time,--and do you love Clive, my dear?"

The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her lodger was perfect, and
for a brief season Lady Ann Newcome was in rapture with her new lodgings
and every person and thing which they contained. The drawing-rooms were
fitted with the greatest taste; the dinner was