thing. Madam Le Baron nodded, and smiled a little; then she turned
to me; a few quiet words, and I knew all about it. She had received
that morning a note from her grandniece, "a young and giddy person,"
who lived in B----, some twenty miles away, announcing that she and
a party of friends were about to drive over to Hillton to see the
old house. She felt sure that her dear aunt would be enchanted to
see them, as it must be "quite too forlorn for her, all alone in
that great barn;" so she might expect them the next evening (that is,
the evening of this very day), in time for supper, and no doubt as
hungry as hunters. There would be about a dozen of them, probably,
but she knew there was plenty of room at Birchwood, and it would be
a good thing to fill up the empty rooms for once in a way; so,
looking forward to a pleasant meeting, the writer remained her
dearest aunt's "affectionate niece, Effie Gay."

"The child has no mother," said Madam Le Baron to Miss Persis; then
turning to me, she said: "I am alone, save for my two maids, who are
of middle age, and not accustomed to youthful visitors. Learning
from my good friend, Miss Elderby, that a young gentlewoman was
staying at her house, I conceived the idea of asking you to spend
the night with me, and such portion of the next day as my guests may
remain. If you are willing to do me this service, my dear, you may
put off your bonnet, and I will send for your evening dress and your
toilet necessaries."

I had been listening in a dream, hearing what was said, but thinking
it all like a fairy story, chiefly impressed by the fact that the
speaker was the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my life.
The last sentence, however, brought me to my senses with a vengeance.
With scarlet cheeks I explained that I had brought no evening dress