was her usual daily custom, in assisting Priscilla with the
housework and the preparation for breakfast. There was always
plenty to do, and as she moved quickly to and fro, fulfilling the
various duties she had taken upon herself and which she performed
with unobtrusive care and exactitude, the melancholy forebodings
of the past night partially cleared away from her mind. Yet there
was a new expression on her face--one of sadness and seriousness
unfamiliar to its almost child-like features, and it was not easy
for her to smile in her ordinary bright way at the round of
scolding which Priscilla administered every morning to the maids
who swept and scrubbed and dusted and scoured the kitchen till no
speck of dirt was anywhere visible, till the copper shone like
mirrors, and the tables were nearly as smooth as polished silver
or ivory. Going into the dairy where pans of new milk stood ready
for skimming, and looking out for a moment through the lattice
window, she saw old Hugo Jocelyn and Robin Clifford walking
together across the garden, engaged in close and earnest
conversation. A little sigh escaped her as she thought: "They are
talking about me!"--then, on a sudden impulse, she went back into
the kitchen where Priscilla was for the moment alone, the other
servants having dispersed into various quarters of the house, and
going straight up to her said, simply--

"Priscilla dear, why did you never tell me that I wasn't Dad's own
daughter?"

Priscilla started violently, and her always red face turned
redder,--then, with an effort to recover herself, she answered--

"Lord, lovey! How you frightened me! Why didn't I tell you? Well,