Liza did not wait to be sent away from the room, but ran out sobbing, to hurry up-stairs to her bed-chamber, open her box, and see if the brilliant specimens of silken fabric were safe, and then cry over them till they were blotched with her tears.
“A bad family,” said Aunt Marguerite. “I’m quite sure that girl stole my piece of muslin lace, and gave it to that wretched woman your Uncle Luke encourages.”
“No, no, aunt, you lost that piece of lace one day when you were out.”
“Nonsense, child! your memory is not good. Who is that with you? Oh, I see; Miss Van Heldre.”
Aunt Marguerite, after suddenly becoming aware of the presence of Madelaine, made a most ceremonious curtsy, and then sailed out of the room.
“Louise must be forced to give up the companionship of that wretched Dutch girl,” she said as she reached her own door, at which she paused to listen to Liza sobbing.
“I wonder what Miss Vine would have been like,” thought Madelaine, “if she had married some good sensible man, and had a large family to well employ her mind?” Then she asked herself what kind of man she would have selected as possessing the necessary qualifications, and concluded that he should have been such a man as Duncan Leslie, and wondered whether he would marry her friend.
“Why, Madelaine,” said Louise, breaking her chain of thought, “what are you thinking about?”
“Thinking about?” said the girl, starting, and colouring slightly. “Oh, I was thinking about Mr Leslie just then.”