--though you are not of
my own country,--a woman to a woman.

_Susan [aside]._ Dear heart alive! I'm melting like a tallow candle.

_Mrs. C.N._ I was a poor Berkshire curate's daughter--

_Susan [interrupting hastily]._ A _what_? [_Recollecting herself._] A
poor _cure_'s daughter--yas, yas--in Berkishire, _qu'est-ce que c'est_
Berkishire?

_Mrs. C.N._ It is in the south of England, madam. We were poor, I say,
and I had been used to straits, even before my poor father died. But my
husband has been always accustomed to luxury and comfort, and now that
poverty has come suddenly upon us--

_Susan [interrupting with emotion, but still speaking broken English.]_
Were you considaired like your fader?

_Mrs. C.N._ Yes, madam, very like.

_Susan [anxiously and tremblingly]._ What was his name?

_Mrs. C.N._ Woodward, madam. He was curate of Salthill, near Eton.

_Susan [throwing herself at her feet and kissing her hands]._ Why,
you're Miss Clara! and I'm Susan,--Susan Montem, to whom he was so kind
and noble [_sobbing_]. I'm no more a Montmorenci than you are,--nor half
as much. I'm a workhouse orphan, and--and--your aunt by marriage.
[_Aside, and clasping her hands_]. Oh, what _can_ I do to help them?
what _can_ I do?

_Mrs. C.N. [fervently]._ I thank heaven. There is genuine gratitude in
your kind face. I remember you now, though I am sure I should never have
recognized you, Susan.

_Susan._ I dare say not, Miss Clara [_rising and wiping her eyes_]. Fine
feathers make fine birds. Lor, how I should like to have a talk with you
about old times! But there, we've got something else to do first.
Where's your good husband?

_Mrs. C.N._ In the garden, hiding in the laurel-bed, with Chickabiddy.
That's our baby, you know.

[_Carriage heard departing; they listen. Enter Mr. Nokes, slightly
elevated with champagne, and not perceiving Mrs. C.N._]

_Nokes._ Hurrah, my dear! they're off, all three of them,--all five of
them, for each of them sees two of the others; they have no notion that
your name is Susan--[_sees Mrs. C.N._] I mean Constance. [_Aside_] Oh,
Lor! just as I thought we'd weathered the storm, too, and got into still
water!

_Susan [gravely]._ She knows all about it, husband. That lady is the
daughter of my benefactor, Mr. Woodward, to whom I owed everything on
earth till I met you.

_Nokes [with enthusiasm, and holding out both hands]._ The deuce she is!
I am most uncommonly glad to see you, ma'am, under