"Hush, dear heart! hush, my poor child! you must not take on in that
way. It seems a poor coming home for you--for I suppose Deepley Walls is
to be your home in time to come--but there are those under this roof
that love you dearly. Eh! but you are grown tall and bonny, and look as
fresh and sweet as a morning in May. Her ladyship ought to be proud of
you. But she gets that cantankerous and cross-grained in her old age
that you never know what will suit her for two minutes at a time. For
all that, her spirit is just wonderful, and she is a real lady, every
inch of her. And you, Miss Janet, you are a thorough lady; anybody can
see that, and her ladyship will see it as soon as anybody. She will like
you none the worse for being a gentlewoman. But here am I preaching away
like any old gadabout, and you not as much as taken your bonnet off yet.
Get your things off, dearie, and I'll have a cup of tea ready in no
time, and you'll feel ever so much better when you have had it."

Dance could scarcely take her eyes off Janet's face, so attracted was
she by the likeness which had rung from her an exclamation on entering
the room.

But Janet was tired, and reserved all questions till the morrow; all
questions, except one. That one was--

"How is Sister Agnes?"

Dance shook her head solemnly. "No worse and no better than she has been
for the last two months. There is something lingering about her that I
don't like. She is far from well, and yet not exactly what we call ill.
Morning, noon and night she seems so terribly weary, and that is just
what frightens me. She has asked after you I don't know how many times,
and when tea is over you must go and see her. Only I must warn you, dear