"Yes, yes, my dear. I seem to take to you at once. I look upon you and Mona both as my nieces and my loved charges. I had a little daughter once, but she died in infancy. Had she lived, I think she would have looked like you. You are very pretty, my dear."
"You mustn't tell me so, Aunt Adelaide," said Patty, smiling at her.
"It isn't good chaperonage to make your girls vain."
"Mona is pretty, too," went on Mrs. Parsons, unheeding Patty's words.
"But of a different type. She hasn't your air of refinement,—of class."
"Oh, don't discuss us before each other," laughed Mona, good-naturedly. "And I'm jealous and envious enough of Patty already, without having those traits fostered."
"Yes," went on Aunt Adelaide, reminiscently, "my little girl had blue eyes and golden hair,—they said she looked like me. She was very pretty. Her father was a plain-looking man. Good as gold, Henry was, but plain looking. Not to say homely,—but just plain."
A faraway look came in the speaker's eyes, and she rambled on and on about her lost husband and daughter, until Patty looked at Mona questioningly.
"Yes, yes, Aunt Adelaide," Mona said, speaking briskly; "but now, don't you want to change your travelling gown for something lighter? And then will you lie down for a while, or come with us down to the west veranda? It is always cool there in the morning."
"No, I don't want to lie down. I'll join you girls very shortly. I suppose you have a maid for me, Mona? I shall need one for my exclusive service."
"Oh, yes, Auntie; you may have Lisette."
"Not if she's French. I can't abide a French maid."