dark
passage, and up a still darker stair, into a dingy little parlour, with
a carpet of red and green stripes, a horsehair sofa, a grate covered
with cut paper, and a general perfume of brandy and cigars. There were
some preparations for breakfast, but no one was in the room but a little
girl, about seven years old, dressed in shabby-genteel mourning.

She was pale and sickly-looking, but her eyes were of a lovely deep
blue, with a very sweet expression, and a profusion of thick flaxen
curls hung round her neck and shoulders. She said in a soft, little, shy
voice,--

'Mamma says she will be here directly, if you will excuse her a moment.'

Having made this formal speech, the little thing was creeping off on
tip-toe, so as to escape before the maid shut the door, but Guy held out
his hand, sat down so as to be on a level with her, and said,--

'Don't go, my little maid. Won't you come and speak to your cousin Guy?'

Children never failed to be attracted, whether by the winning beauty of
his smile, or the sweetness of the voice in which he spoke to anything
small or weak, and the little girl willingly came up to him, and put her
hand into his. He stroked her thick, silky curls, and asked her name.

'Marianne,' she answered.

It was his mother's name, and this little creature had more resemblance
to his tenderly-cherished vision of his young mother than any
description Dixon could have given. He drew her closer to him, took the
other small, cold hand, and asked her how she liked St. Mildred's.

'Oh! much better than London. There are flowers!' and she proudly
exhibited a cup holding some ragged robins, dead nettles, and other
common flowers which a country child would have held cheap. He admired
and gained more of her confidence, so that she had begun to chatter away
quite freely about 'the high, high hills that reached up to the sky, and
the pretty stones,' till the door opened, and Mrs. Dixon and Bustle made
their entrance.

Marianne was so much afraid of the dog, Guy so eager to console, and her
mother to scold her, and protest that it should not be turned out, that
there was nothing but confusion, until Guy had shown her that Bustle was
no dangerous wild beast, induced her to accept his offered paw, and lay
a timid finger on his smooth, black head, after which the transition was
short to dog and child sitting lovingly together on the floor, Marianne
stroking his ears, and admiring him with a sort of silent ec