Countess Kate. Yonge Charlotte Mary

to be learning to fly, and stood up flapping our frocks and squeaking, and Charlie came under and danced the branches about.  We didn’t like that; and Armyn said it was a shame, and hunted him away, racing all round the garden; and we scrambled down by ourselves, and came down on the slope.  It is a long green slope, right down to the river, all smooth and turfy, you know; and I was standing at the top, when Charlie comes slyly, and saying he would help the little bird to fly, gave me one push, and down I went, roll, roll, tumble, tumble, till Sylvia really thought she heard my neck crack!  Wasn’t it fun?”

      “But the river, my dear!” said Lady Jane, shuddering.

      “Oh! there was a good flat place before we came to the river, and I stopped long before that!  So then, as we had been the birds of the air, we thought we would be the fishes of the sea; and it was nice and shallow, with dear little caddises and river cray-fish, and great British pearl-shells at the bottom.  So we took off our shoes and stockings, and Charlie and Armyn turned up their trousers, and we had such a nice paddling.  I really thought I should have got a British pearl then; and you know there were some in the breast-plate of Venus.”

      “In the river!  Did your cousin allow that?”

      “Oh yes; we had on our old blue checks; and Mary never minds anything when Armyn is there to take care of us.  When they heard in the drawing-room what we had been doing, they made Mary sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ because of ‘We twa hae paidlit in the burn frae morning sun till dine;’ and whenever in future times I meet Armyn, I mean to say,

      ‘We twa hae paidlit in the burn

         Frae morning sun till dine;

      We’ve wandered many a weary foot

         Sin auld lang syne.’

      Or perhaps I shall be able to sing it, and that will be still prettier.”

      And Kate sat still, thinking of the prettiness of the scene of the stranger, alone in the midst of numbers, in the splendid drawing-rooms, hearing the sweet voice of the lovely young countess at the piano, singing this touching memorial of the simple days of childhood.

      Lady Jane meanwhile worked her embroidery, and thought what wonderful disadvantages the poor child had had, and that Barbara really must not be too severe on her, after she had lived with such odd people, and that it was very fortunate that she had been taken away from them before she had grown any older, or more used to them.

      Soon after, Kate gave a specimen of her manners with boys.  When she went into the dining-room at luncheon time one wet afternoon, she heard steps on the stairs behind her aunt’s, and there appeared a very pleasant-looking gentleman, followed by a boy of about her own age.

      “Here is our niece,” said Lady Barbara.  “Katharine, come and speak to Lord de la Poer.”

      Kate liked his looks, and the way in which he held out his hand to her; but she knew she should be scolded for her awkward greeting: so she put out her hand as if she had no use of her arm above the elbow, hung down her head, and said “—do;” at least no more was audible.

      But there was something comfortable and encouraging in the grasp of the strong large hand over the foolish little fingers; and he quite gave them to his son, whose shake was a real treat; the contact with anything young was like meeting a follow-countryman in a foreign land, though neither as yet spoke.

      She found out that the boy’s name was Ernest, and that his father was taking him to school, but had come to arrange some business matters for her aunts upon the way.  She listened with interest to Lord de la Poer’s voice, for she liked it, and was sure he was a greater friend there than any she had before seen.  He was talking about Giles—that was her uncle, the Colonel in India; and she first gathered from what was passing that her uncle’s eldest and only surviving son, an officer in his own regiment, had never recovered a wound he had received at the relief of Lucknow, and that if he did not get better at Simlah, where his mother had just taken him, his father thought of retiring and bringing him home, though all agreed that it would be a very unfortunate thing that the Colonel should be obliged to resign his command before getting promoted; but they fully thought he would do so, for this was the last of his children; another son had been killed in the Mutiny, and two or three little girls had been born and died in India.

      Kate had never known this.  Her aunts never told her anything, nor talked over family affairs before her; and she was opening her ears most eagerly, and turning her quick bright eyes from one speaker to the other with such earnest attention, that the guest turned kindly to her, and said, “Do you remember your uncle?”

      “Oh dear no!  I was a little baby when he went away.”

      Kate never used dear as an adjective except at the beginning of a letter, but always, and very unnecessarily, as an interjection; and this time it was so emphatic as to bring Lady Barbara’s eyes on her.

      “Did you see either Giles or poor Frank before they went out to him?”

      “Oh dear no!”

      This time the dear was from the confusion that made her always do the very thing she ought not to do.

      “No; my niece has been too much separated from her own relations,” said Lady Barbara, putting this as an excuse for the “Oh dears.”