Mimi lay in bed in the nursery of the hired house on the way to
Rottingdean, which, considering that it was not "home," was a fairly
comfortable sort of abode. The nursery was immense, though an attic. The
white blinds of the two windows were drawn, and a fire burned in the
grate, lighting it pleasantly and behaving in a very friendly manner. At
the other end of the room, in the deep shadow, was Jean's bed.

The door opened quietly and someone came into the room and pushed the
door to without quite shutting it.

"Is that you, mamma?" Jean demanded in his shrill voice, from the
distance of the bed in the corner. His age was exactly eight.

"Yes, dear," said the new stepmother.

The menial Ada had arranged the children for the night, and now the
stepmother had come up to kiss them and be kind. She was a conscientious
young woman, full of a desire to do right, and she had determined not to
be like the traditional stepmother.

She kissed Jean, who had taken quite a fancy to her, and tickled him
agreeably, and tucked him up anew, and then moved silently across the
room to Mimi. Mimi could see her face in the twilight of the fire. A
handsome, good-natured face; yet very determined, and perhaps a little
too full of common sense. It had a responsible, somewhat grave look.
After all, these two young children were a responsibility, especially
Mimi with her back; and, moreover, Pierre Emile Vaillac had disappointed
both her and her step-children by telegraphing that he could not arrive
that night. Olive One, the bride of three months, had put on fine