more. I am the eldest--'Mother's crutch,' as
they call me. We are such a family for giving each other funny names.
Tom comes next. I am three-and-twenty--quite an old person, as Tom
says--and he is one-and-twenty. He is at Oxford; he wants to be a
barrister. Christine comes next to Tom--she is nineteen, and so pretty;
and then poor Hatty--'sour seventeen,' as Tom called her on her last
birthday; and then the two children, Ella and Katie; though Ella is
nearly sixteen, and Katie fourteen, but they are only school-girls."

"What a large family!" observed Miss Sefton, stifling a little yawn.
"Now, mamma has only got me, for we don't count Richard."

"Not count your brother?"

"Oh, Richard is my step-brother; he was papa's son, you know; that makes
a difference. Papa died when I was quite a little girl, so you see what
I mean by saying mamma has only got me."

"But she has your brother, too," observed Bessie, somewhat puzzled by
this.

"Oh, yes, of course." But Miss Sefton's tone was enigmatical, and she
somewhat hastily changed the subject by saying, plaintively, "Oh, dear,
do please tell me, Miss Lambert, what you think I ought to do when we
reach Cliffe, if we ever do reach it. Shall I telegraph to my friends in
London, and go to a hotel? Perhaps you could recommend me one, or----"

"No; you shall come home with me," returned Bessie, moved to this sudden
inspiration by the weary look in Miss Sefton's face. "We are not
strangers; my father and your mother were friends; that is sufficient
introduction. Mother is the kindest woman in the world--every one says
so. We are not rich people, but we can make you comfortable. To be sure,
there is not a spare room; our house is not large, and there are so many
of us; but you shall have my room, and I will have half of Chrissy's
bed. You are too young"--and here Bessie was going to add "too pretty,"
only she checked herself--"to go alone to a hotel. Mother would be
dreadfully shocked at the idea."

"You are very kind--too kind; but your people might object," hesitated
Miss Sefton.

"Mother never objects to anything we do; at least, I might turn it the
other way about, and say we never propose anything to which she is
likely to object. When my mother knows all about it, she will give you a
hearty welcome."

"If you are quite sure of that, I will accept your invitation
thankfully, for I am tired to death. You are goodness itself to me, but
I shall not like turning you out