with the irresistible grace and kindness which charmed every
stranger who approached her. "Oh, it's all right," said Kitty.
"Syd likes me, and I like Syd. What do you think? She lived in
London with a cruel woman who never gave her enough to eat. See
what a good girl I am? I'm beginning to feed her already." Kitty
pulled a box of sweetmeats out of her pocket, and handed it to
the governess with a tap on the lid, suggestive of an old
gentleman offering a pinch of snuff to a friend.

"My dear child, you mustn't speak of Miss Westerfield in that
way! Pray excuse her," said Mrs. Linley, turning to Sydney with a
smile; "I am afraid she has been disturbing you in your room."

Sydney's silent answer touched the mother's heart; she kissed her
little friend. "I hope you will let her call me Syd," she said
gently; "it reminds me of a happier time." Her voice faltered;
she could say no more. Kitty explained, with the air of a grown
person encouraging a child. "I know all about it, mamma. She
means the time when her papa was alive. She lost her papa when
she was a little girl like me. I didn't disturb her. I only said,
'My name's Kitty; may I get up on the bed?' And she was quite
willing; and we talked. And I helped her to dress." Mrs. Linley
led Sydney to the sofa, and stopped the flow of her daughter's
narrative. The look, the voice, the manner of the governess had
already made their simple appeal to her generous nature. When her
husband took Kitty's hand to lead her with him out of the room,
she whispered as he passed: "You have done quite right; I haven't
a doubt of it now!"