"Who makes tea for you in general?" asked Mrs. Vane, telegraphing a
contemptuous glance to Isabel behind her grandmother.

But the eyes of Lady Isabel fell timidly and a blush rose to her cheeks.
She did not like to appear to differ from Mrs. Vane, her senior, and her
father's guest, but her mind revolted at the bare idea of ingratitude or
ridicule cast on an aged parent.

"Harriet comes in and makes it for me," replied Mrs. Levison; "aye, and
sits down and takes it with me when I am alone, which is pretty often.
What do you say to that, Madame Emma--you, with your fine notions?"

"Just as you please, of course, grandmamma."

"And there's the tea-caddy at your elbow, and the urn's fizzing away,
and if we are to have any tea to-night, it had better be made."

"I don't know how much to put in," grumbled Mrs. Vane, who had the
greatest horror of soiling her hands or her gloves; who, in short, had a
particular antipathy to doing anything useful.

"Shall I make it, dear Mrs. Levison?" said Isabel, rising with alacrity.
"I had used to make it quite as often as my governess at Mount Severn,
and I make it for papa."

"Do, child," replied the old lady. "You are worth ten of her."

Isabel laughed merrily, drew off her gloves, and sat down to the table;
and at that moment a young and elegant man lounged into the room. He was
deemed handsome, with his clearly-cut features, his dark eyes, his raven