"I must say good-bye now," said Lady Eleanor, drawing Elsie aside as they left the dining-room; "I cannot tell you how glad we are to have found you, and to have found you so like your dear mother too. It is too bad papa and mamma cannot see you, as we must leave to-morrow; but we shall meet again soon."
"I do not know about that," replied poor Elsie, almost breaking down.
"My dear child, you do not think we are going to let you be lost again! And this is what I want to say to you, Elsie, dear: will you promise to come over to us when—I mean if anything happens to Mrs. McAravey?—she cannot live long, poor old body."
"Oh, you are too kind!" cried Elsie, fairly bursting into tears, and hiding her face on her new friend's shoulder—"you are too kind; but how can I promise? It sometimes seems my duty to stay here."
Eleanor More was a true woman, and so—though surprised at this sudden outbreak—she lifted the girl's head between her hands, and kissing her
CONCLUSION.
The summer had waned away; the autumn tints were already on the trees, and the light of the September afternoon was growing feeble and uncertain, as a dainty little figure scrambled out of the low carriage that had drawn up before the neatest and most ideal of English cottage homes. Lady Eleanor More stood at the garden wicket to receive her friend, and behind her in the doorway was to be seen a tidy, white-capped little old woman.
"So we have got you at last, Elsie; and here is the prison where you are to be confined at hard labour, and this is your gaoler, Mrs. Nugent. How do you like it all?"
Elsie was delighted, and could find no words in which to thank her kind patron. Everything was charming, and everything had been arranged with that thoughtful consideration which nothing but real affection produce.