"It is hard!" I burst out; "it is very hard for you and Martha to
have your quiet life disturbed. But how could we help coming here,
when we had no home and no money, and Uncle Geoffrey was so generous?
And then there was Dot and mother so ailing." And at the thought of
all our helplessness, and Uncle Geoffrey's goodness a great tear
rolled down my cheek. It was very babyish and undignified; but, after
all, no assumption of womanliness would have helped me so much.
Deborah's grim mouth relaxed; under her severe exterior, and with her
sharp tongue, there beat a very kind heart, and Dot was her weak
point.

"Well, well, crying won't help the pot to boil, Miss Esther!" she
said, brusquely enough; but I could see she was coming round. "Master
was always that kind-hearted that he would have sheltered the whole
parish if he could. I am not blaming him, though it goes hard with
Martha and me, who have led peaceable, orderly lives, and never had a
mistress or thought of one since Miss Blake died, and the master took
up thoughts of single blessedness in earnest."

"What sort of woman was Miss Blake?" I asked, eagerly, forgetting my
few troubled tears at the thought of Uncle Geoffrey's one romance.
The romance of middle-aged people always came with a faint, far-away
odor to us young ones, like some old garment laid up in rose-leaves
or lavender, which must needs be of quaint fashion and material, but
doubtless precious in the eyes of the wearer.

"Woman!" returned Deborah, with an angry snort; "she was a lady, if
there ever was one. We don't see her sort every day, I can tell you
that, Miss Esther; a pretty-spoken, dainty creature, with long fair