When they were seated side by side in their comfortable arm-chairs on the right of the fire-place:
“What do you think of her, Abby, my dear?” said the antique lady to the ancient one.
“I think she is a very charming woman, and I pity her misfortunes.”
“And so do I. But see here, Abby, my dear, you must really look after that boy of yours, or he will be making love to this Italian lady.”
“Yes, mother; I see that.”
“And you know, Abby, that you would not like the lad to marry a foreigner.”
“No, mother.”
“So, though we must be as kind as possible to this unfortunate princess, whose story reminds me of all the fairy tales I ever read in my life, still we must keep an eye on that boy, and see that he does not make a fool of himself, Abby.”
“Certainly, mother—Lord bless our souls!” she broke off, as their conversation was again interrupted by another rapid onslaught of the tempest that cannonaded the walls as if it did not mean to leave one stone upon another.
The two old ladies sat crushed in a silence of deep awe for nearly an hour, until the furious storm had raged itself into a temporary rest. Then Mrs. Stilton spoke: