"DEAR MISS LORRAINE,—I know you will like my first impressions of this house. It is an interesting one, and to me a very luxurious one."
"Mrs. Gordon looks like a tragedy queen, her little daughter is all that I could desire from a painter's view. As a subject, she satisfies me, as a child, she fascinates me. I am wondering when I have my brush in hand who is wielding it. Do you remember our talk in Kensington High Street? I miss our cosy teas, and have come to the conclusion that I like small rooms better than big ones."
"Mrs. Gordon is very kind, and treats me as she would a guest. Keep a corner of your heart for me. I am an outsider to every one in the world but you."
"Your affectionate,"
"JEAN."
"Not much in that," was Miss Lorraine's mental comment, "but our plan for her has succeeded. She will get good, not harm, in her present surroundings."
Jean was sitting by her bedroom fire an hour or so after writing that letter, and indulging in a little nap, when a knock at her door roused her. It was the old Scotch nurse.
"If you please, mem, Miss Sunnie be askin' for ye. Wull ye gie the bairn the pleasure o' yer presence?"
Jean started up.
"I will come at once. I think your nursery is the most delightful room in the house."
It looked the picture of comfort when she entered it. The red carpet and curtains, and the blazing fire, the canary, singing his loudest in the deep bay window, the bright pictures on the panelled walls, and lastly, but not least, the sunny presence of the little invalid, all combined to infect every visitor with a sense of cheer and contentment.
Dr. Fergusson was seated in an easy chair by the fire. He got up and relinquished his seat at once. When Jean protested, he said, "I am going to the piano. You have been summoned for a purpose."
"We are going to sing hymns," said Sunnie eagerly. "We always do on Sunday, and we like all the people we can get to help us. Nurse rings a bell down the back stairs, and we sing for an hour, don't we, Cousin Leslie?"
Jean sat down.