"The same lady has sent every day to enquire for you, miss," said the maid, who was very much impressed by the grandeur of the Howell livery, and the importance of the individual who wore it.
"Has she really? No one has mentioned it before," said Monica; "I ought to have been told." And there was a suggestion of displeasure in her tones.
"Mrs. Beauchamp knew, miss, of course, and so did Barnes," Harriet hastened to say, in defence of herself.
"Very well, Harriet, it was not your fault," said Monica, and she busied herself in writing a little girlish note of thanks, which brought tears of pleasure and gratification to the eyes of the good-natured, motherly woman who received it, and then slipped it into her pocket for fear her tyrannical young daughter should come across it, and make fun of it. For Lily Howell had not yet grown reconciled to the idea of "that Monica Beauchamp" getting into her home, and prying into everything, and then going off to make fun of all the mistakes she knew her mother must have made.
There had been a great scene upon her return home, on the Monday evening, and she had exclaimed long and loudly against the fate which had allowed such an unfortunate thing to come to pass.
Mrs. Howell, instead of severely reprimanding her daughter for being so insulting and rude, had wept feebly, and bowed beneath the angry girl's storm of words; but in her heart she treasured the remembrance of the kind words and very real gratitude of a daughter of the aristocracy to a poor, common-place woman, such as she was allowed no opportunity of forgetting that she, Caroline Howell, was.
CHAPTER XII.
"A HUNGRY FEELING IN MY BRAIN."
"What do you think of this?" said Monica, that same Saturday afternoon, as she pointed to Jack, who was lying curled up on her rug.
And Olive was astounded, as her friend knew she would be, at such an unexpected sight.