The lady who sat by the window looked round, and rose. She was young—certainly under thirty; but rather stiff and prim, very upright, and not free from angularity. She gave the impression that she must have been born just as she was, in her black satin skirt, dark blue serge kirtle, unbending buckram cap, whitest and most unruffled of starched frills,—and have been kept ever since under a glass case.
“You are Barbara Polwhele?” she said.
Barbara dropped a courtesy, and replied affirmatively.
“Sister!” said Mistress Rachel, appealing to the sleeper.
No greater difference between two young women could well be imagined, than that which existed in this instance. Lady Enville—for she was the taker of the siesta—was as free from any appearance of angularity or primness as possible. Everything about her was soft, delicate, and graceful. She was fair in complexion, and very pretty. She had been engaged in fancy-work, and it lay upon her lap, held lightly by one hand, just as it had dropped when she fell asleep.
“Sister!” said Rachel again.
Lady Enville stirred, sighed, and half opened her eyes.
“Here is thy little maid, Sister.”
Lady Enville opened her blue eyes fully, dropped her work on the floor, and springing up, caught Clare to her bosom with the most exalted expressions of delight.
“Fragrance of my heart! My rose of spring! My gem of beauty! Art thou come to me at last, my soul’s darling?”