Lucy Rowe was favoured with these observations, heightened by occasional
hits at her own misfortune in that she was a Rowe, and could not boast
one thimbleful of Whyte blood in her veins.

It was the almost daily care of Mrs. Rowe to impress the people with
whom her business brought her in contact, with the gulf that lay between
her and her niece; although, through the early and inexplicable
condescension of a Miss Harriet Whyte, of Battersea, they bore the same
name, Miss Rowe was no blood relation _whatever_.

It was surprising to see how Lucy bore up under the misfortune. She was
not a Whyte, but she had lived beside one. Youth is so elastic! Lucy,
albeit she had the Rowe lip and nose, and, worse than all, the Rowe hair
(a warm auburn, which Mrs. Rowe described in one syllable, with a
picturesque and popular comparison comprehended in two), was daring
enough to meet the daylight, without showing the smallest signs of
giving way to melancholy. When new comers, as a common effort of
politeness, saw a strong likeness between Mrs. Rowe and her niece, the
representative of the Whytes of Battersea drew herself to her full
height, which was a trifle above her niece's shoulders, and
answered--"Oh dear, no, madam! It would be very strange if there were,
as there is not the slightest blood relationship between us."

Lucy Rowe was about fifteen when I first saw her. A slender,
golden-haired, shy and quiet girl, much in bashful and sensitive
demeanour like her romantic namesake of "the untrodden ways." It is
quite true that she had no Whyte blood in her veins, and Mrs. Rowe could
most conscientiously declare that there was not the least resemblance
between them. The Whyte features were of a type which none would envy
the possessor, save as the stamp of the illustrious house of Battersea.