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To say that Mrs. Bennet’s heart was won by Lora does not express it—she was her slave! and I almost felt jealous to see how quickly the stranger had wound herself as much into Mary’s good graces as myself, her nursling; but then Lora crept swiftly into every heart, while I—but I am but myself too apt to forget the old adage, “Love gets love.”

In the meantime, I was revolving a scheme for persuading Mrs. Bennet to unravel the history—the bare hint of which always so much unsettled me—respecting the family in which, or rather among whose descendants, she had been brought up, but of whose deeds of daring she was generally, with characteristic caution, somewhat shy: and I thought to myself, would a new ribbon (bright red) open her heart and subsequently her lips?—would a douceur of greater magnitude be necessary?—under what cloak could the coaxing, wheedling measure be best disguised? When, judge of my surprise on going into Lora’s room on the morning after her arrival, to hear (but it was not this which startled me), “for a’ the world just like ane Lady Janet Johnstoun o’ the Johnstoun Ha’.” Lora’s sweet voice replied gently, “Was Lady Janet very fond of you, Mrs. Bennet?”

“Nae, nae, my dear,” expostulated Mrs. Bennet, somewhat taken aback at this interpretation of her words, “I ne’er had glint o’ her bonnie face, but she wer cradled at the same time wi’ my ain gude mither, as wad gladlie ha’ died for her, and her name’s been the same to me as I’ve heard say the Vargin Mary’s is to some o’ them papishers ower the water.”

Lora smiled at the old woman’s words; but my entrance interrupted their flow, and it was not until Lora and I were leaving the room together that my astonishment reached its climax.

“Then you won’t forget your promise, Mrs. Bennet, and tell us the Johnstoun history, to-night?” said Lora.

“Weel, weel, my dear,” was the reply; “it’s ower hard to deny ye onything, I’m thinking, and ye’ll get yer ain way wi’ me fast eneuch.”

I could hardly restrain my curiosity until we were out of hearing.

“My dear Lora,” I then exclaimed, “how on earth did you do it?”

“Do what?” she said, looking surprised in her turn.

“Do?” I reiterated. “Get Mary to promise the Johnstoun history? She is always so shy of mentioning more than their mighty names.”

“Well, I suppose,” replied Lora, “that it was a verification of the old proverb, ‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.’ I had not the least idea of any difficulty, therefore, when she spoke so frequently of the Lady Janet Johnstoun, I simply asked her to tell us the tale to-night, when I hope the rendezvous will be your boudoir as usual. But, do you think,” said Lora, becoming anxious, “that it will pain the old woman to rake up the memory of bygone days, because, if you do, I’ll run back and put a stop to it at once; there is no use in letting the poor thing brood over the thought for the whole day.”

I answered somewhat pettishly:

“Nonsense, Lora, come along; if she doesn’t like it, I’m sure she won’t do it. I don’t believe she has any objection, only she likes to be coaxed into doing a thing, and I never could learn how to do that.”

But as I gazed on my companion’s transparent face, and noted the unselfish purity which shone through, I recognised for a moment what it was which made her irresistible to most people, although she herself was so unconscious of the attraction; and a pang shot through my heart as I felt how much more loveable she was than my selfish self, for this very incident had called my amour propre into play, and the thought never left me during the next twenty-four hours—“Mrs. Bennet promised at once for Lora, although I have never been able to get her to relate me the story,” and once or twice jealous tears welled up into my eyes.

Lora was so merry, and fresh, and amusing, that the hours flew past unheeded, as every one knows they do when a party of ladies get together. But when two girls meet, Time’s pinions must ache again with the rapidity of his flight.

Lora was so deeply interested in everything—horses, dogs, books, ferns, flowers, music; she did everything so well, and sang, at all hours, at any one’s request, anything and everything, so charmingly, and with so much enjoyment of the music herself, that I did not wonder at her being idolised, for the crowning point of her attractions has yet to be told—she could be as charmingly quiet. And let me give this hint to all whom it may concern: quietness, repose, or what our neighbours term retenu, is the most difficult—nay, I had almost said impossible—attainment. There are some very young girls who, in the fresh buoyancy of youth, take hearts by storm—they are few, and their conquests doubtful; but a woman, be she young or old, who charms, simply and quietly, by saying and doing nothing, ought to be ticketed “dangerous.”

But once more let me take up the thread of my narrative. The day passed over so happily, that I had almost forgotten the Christmas-box which I—poor, lonely woman—had made myself a present of, namely, my antique ornaments, until the dressing-bell rang. Guests had arrived, to be welcomed and ushered to their respective chambers, where fires burned bright and cheery. And as I passed through the great hall on my way to my own side of the house, I saw the holly and mistletoe, with red and white berries reflecting each from their bright leaves the flashes of warmth wrung from their dismembered kindred on the hearth; and I wondered within myself if the dead logs were recognised by the fresh boughs, or exchanged a kindly greeting on this Christmas Eve, before fading into dust and ashes. It may be so.

After travelling up the long staircase, I paused to recover breath by the side of the table in my room, on which still lay the faded case, and, taking it in my hand, once more tried to open the