changed hands rapidly in a region
of trade and manufacture, and the old Dynevor name had been forgotten
past recall, amid the very population who were thriving upon the
identical speculations which had swamped Mr. Frost's fortune. If the
crowd without looked like a mob, the assembly within had a parvenu
appearance; and as Oliver handed his mother across the hall, he
muttered something, as if he were disappointed both in the number and
consequence of his guests.

He led her into a magnificent apartment, all gilding, blue brocade, and
mirrors, as far as might be after the model of the days of the
Shrievalty; but the bare splendour could ill recall the grace and
elegance that had then reigned there without effort. Peru had not
taught Oliver taste either of the eye or of the mind, and his
indefatigable introductions--'My mother, Mrs. Dynevor, my niece, Miss
Dynevor, Lord Ormersfield, Lord Fitzjocelyn,' came so repeatedly as
quite to jingle in their ears.

Sir Andrew Britton, a burly cotton lord, with a wife in all the colours
of the rainbow, seemed to be the grand guest. His lady seated herself
beside Mrs. Frost, and began to tell her, with a tone of patronage, how
good a neighbourhood it was, and how much pleasure she should have in
introducing Miss Dynevor.

In vain did Mrs. Frost look for a face she knew, and inquire from her
new acquaintance after familiar old names of places and people. The
places were either become factories, or some charming new family lived
there; and for the people, it seemed as if she might as well ask for
antediluvians; Lady Britton had seldom heard their names, or if any
trace survived, they had never been on her visiting list.

At last Oliver came up to her, saying, 'Here, ma'am, Mr. Henderson
claims an early acquaintance with you.'

'Mr. Henderson!' and she eagerly started up, but looked baffled.

'Little George Henderson,' said the grey-headed gentleman--for once a
real gentleman--'I assure you I have not forgotten the happy days I
have spent here.'

'Little George!' as she took him by both hands--'who would have thought
it! You were little George with the apple cheeks. And are no more of
you here?'

He shook his head sadly. 'They would have been even more glad than I
am to welcome you home; they were older, and knew you better.'

'Ah! I must learn to ask no questions. And yet, that dear sister
Fanny of yours--'

'Gone many years since, ma'am. She died in India. I hope