Mrs. Mildmay was John Mildmay's only sister, and at his death she had undertaken the sole charge of his daughter Violet, whom she loved as a daughter, and by whom she was beloved in return as a mother, with just this difference, that, whereas, the dear old lady was rather afraid of her beautiful, high-spirited ward, the girl was as fearless as a lioness, and gave her love unalloyed and unshadowed.
Violet Mildmay had inherited the brave, simple nature of the merchant prince, and was a realization of that most glorious ideal—a pure-minded, tender-hearted English girl.
Mrs. Mildmay was knitting—a favorite amusement, or occupation, as she would have dignified it, for the results of her pastime were distributed among the Penruddie poor—and sinking into a comfortable doze, from which the sharp striking of an ormolu clock aroused her.
"Dear me!" she murmured, placidly smiling; "dear me, Violet, I was nearly asleep."
The remark finding no answer, the old lady turned in her chair, and found the handsomely furnished room was empty.
"Violet, where are you, my dear? What a restless girl it is. She was here five minutes ago, and now she has gone. Just like poor John, never still ten minutes together."
At that moment the conservatory door was thrown open with a suddenness that made the old lady drop her needle, and a sweet, but full, voice immediately behind her said:
"Whom am I like, auntie?"
"No one in particular, my dear," faltered the old lady, with a pleasant smile and a "Thank you" for the needle, which the owner of the voice had sprung forward to recover before the old lady could stoop.
"Where have you been, my dear? I did not know you had left the room."