of a duchess.

Her manner was perfect. To my mother, gentle and deferential; to my
father, respectful, with just a dash of quiet independence; to me kind
and loving. Looking at her critically, it was almost impossible to find
a finer woman--her head was beautifully shaped, her hair raven black and
smooth as satin, little ears like pretty pink shells, a beautiful face
with dark, dreamy eyes, thick dark lashes, straight, dark brows, and a
mouth that was, perhaps, the loveliest feature in her face. It was not
tragical beauty, either, but comfortable and comfort loving; there was a
beautiful dimple in her white chin--a wicked dimple, suggestive of fun
and laughter; another, and even more beautiful dimple, deepened near
her lips, and laughed when she laughed. There was nothing of tragedy
about her.

Very soon she was leading the conversation, telling us the details of
her journey, but all in so humorous a fashion that it was quite
irresistible. Sir Roland laughed as I had never seen him laugh before,
and my mother was much amused. Any one looking on at the time would
never have thought this was a governess undergoing a scrutiny, but
rather a duchess trying to entertain her friends.

After some few minutes I saw my mother's sweet face grow pale, and I
knew that she felt tired.

"Papa," I cried, forgetting my governess, "mamma is tired; look at her
face."

Miss Reinhart rose at once and seemed to float to the sofa. "I am
afraid," she said, "that I deserve rebuke. I was so anxious to cheer you