"And are you not a queen," answered my mother, "and a very beautiful one." Turning to the servant, who stood staring at me with eyes big as saucers, she said—
"Tell Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, to come here:"—Jones left the chamber, and presently returned with Mrs. Jenkins, a portly lady, with a round, good-humored face.
"Frank, this is your housekeeper;"—Mrs. Jenkins simpered and courtsied, shaking at the same time the bundle of keys at her waist. "Mrs. Jenkins, this is your young mistress, Miss Van Huyden. Give me the keys."
She took the keys from the housekeeper, and placed them in my hands:
"My dear, this house and all that it contains are yours, I surrender it to your charge."
Scarcely knowing what to do with myself I took the keys—which were heavy enough—and handing them back to Mrs. Jenkins, "hoped that she would continue to superintend the affairs of my mansion, as heretofore." All of which pleased my mother and made her smile.
"We will go to dinner without dressing," and my mother led the way down stairs to the dining-room. It was a large apartment, in the center of which stood a luxuriously furnished table, glittering with gold plate. Servants in livery stood like statues behind my chair and my mother's. How different from the plain fare and simple style of the good clergyman's home! Nay how widely contrasted with the rude dinner in a log cabin to which Ernest and myself sat down a few hours ago!
In vain I tried to partake of the rich dishes set out before me; I was too much excited to eat. Dinner over, coffee was served, and the servants retired. Mother and I were left alone.
"Frank, do you blame me," she said, looking at me carefully—"for having you reared so quietly, far away in the country, in order that at the proper age, strong in health and rich in accomplishments and beauty, you might be prepared to enter upon the enjoyments and duties suitable to your station?"
How could I blame her?