suitable recognition
of her unknown sister. Phoebe hoped the dear boy was well, and Maisie
heard that he was, but had not seen him now nigh a month. Phoebe had had
a letter from him yesterday, but could not quite make it out. Ruth would
go in and get it, for her ladyship to see. Granny Marrable made little
direct concession to the equivocal old woman who might be anything, for
all she was in her ladyship's carriage.

"I suppose," said Gwen, "the boy has tried to describe the accident, and
made a hash of it. Is that it?"

"Indeed, my lady, he does tell something of an accident. Only I took it
for just only telling--story-book like!... Ah, yes, that will be the
letter. Give it to her ladyship."

Gwen took the letter from Widow Thrale, but did not unfold it. "Mayn't I
take it away," she said, "for me and Mrs. Picture to read at home? I
want to get her back and give her some food. She's knocking up."

Immediately Granny Marrable's heart and Widow Thrale's overflowed. What
did the doubts that hung over this old person matter, whatever she was,
if she was running down visibly within the zone of influence of
perceptible mutton-broth; which was confirming, through the door, what
the wood-smoke from the chimney had to say about it to the Universe? Let
Ruth bring out a cup of it at once for Mrs. Picture. It was quite good
and strong by now. Granny Marrable could answer for that.

But it was one thing to be generous to a rival, another to accept a
benevolence from one. Mrs. Picture quite roused herself to acknowledge
the generosity, but she wouldn't have the broth on any terms, evidently.
Gwen thought she could read the history of this between the lines. As we
have seen, she was aware of the sort of jealousy subsisting between
these two old Grannies about their adopted grandson. She thought it best
to favour immediate departure, and Blencorn jumped at the first symptom
of a word to that effect. The carriage rolled away, waving farewells to
the cottage, and the tenants of the latter went slowly back to the
mutton-broth.

And neither of the two old women had the dimmest idea whose face it was
that she had looked at in the broad full light of a glorious autumn day;
not passingly, as one glances at a stranger on the road, who comes one
knows not whence, to vanish away one knows not whither; but inquiringly,
as when a first interview shows us the outward seeming of one known by
hearsay--one whom our mind has dwelt on curiously,