brother's dinner-hour was drawing near, and that if poor Mrs.
Manners did not wake, they must go back without speaking to her.

But she did wake soon--and the paroxysm of anger which seized her on
discovering that she had intruding guests, caused Olive to retire almost
to the staircase. But brave little Miss Vanbrugh did not so easily give
up her charitable purpose.

"Indeed, my good woman, I only meant to offer you sympathy, or any help
you might need in your illness."

The woman refused both. "I tell you we want for nothing."

"_Ma mie_, I am so hungry!" said little Christal, in a tone between
complaint and effrontery. "I will have something to eat."

"You should not speak so rudely to your mother, little girl," interposed
Miss Meliora.

"My mother! No, indeed; she is only _ma mie_. My mother was a rich lady,
and my father a noble gentleman."

"Hear her, Heaven! oh, hear her!" groaned the woman on the floor.

"But I love _ma mie_ very much--that's when she's kind to me," said
Christal; "and as for my own father and mother, who cares for them,
for, as _ma mie_ says, they were drowned together in the deep sea, years
ago."

"Ay, ay," was the muttered answer, as Mrs. Manners clutched the child--a
little, thin-limbed, cunning-eyed girl, of eight or ten years old--and
pressed her to her breast, with a strain more like the gripe of a
lioness than a tender woman's clasp.

Then she fell back exhausted, and took no more notice of anybody.
Meliora forgot Mr. Vanbrugh's dinner, and all things else, in making
a few charitable arrangements, which resulted in a comfortable tea for
little Christal and "_ma mie_."

Sleep had again overpowered the sick woman, who appeared to be slowly
dying of that anomalous disease called decline, in which the mind is the
chief agent of the body's decay. Meanwhile, Miss Vanbrugh talked in an
undertone to little Christal, who, her hunger satisfied, stood, finger
in mouth, watching the two ladies with her fierce black eyes--the very
image of a half-tamed gipsy. Indeed, Miss Meliora seemed rather uneasy,
and desirous to learn more of her companions, for she questioned the
child closely.

"And is the person you call _ma mie_ any relation to you?"

"The neighbours say she is my aunt, from the likeness. I don't know."

"And her name is Mrs. Manners--a widow, no doubt; for I remember she was
in very respectable mourning when she first came to Woodford Cottage."

"Poor young creature!" she