“Nobody, ma’am—only Lally Bird, the governess.”
“Ah-h!” said the old lady, in an odd, choked voice. “Lal-Lally Bird! Lord bless my soul, Peters!”
Mrs. Wroat looked at the young governess with such a queer snap in her eyes, and such a glow on her sallow, withered face, that Lally involuntarily retreated a step toward the door.
“It’s the young lady, ma’am,” whispered Peters, full of amazement. “Whatever does it mean? It’s like magic or sorcery.”
“It means that our advertisement is already answered,” returned Mrs. Wroat grimly. “Saved the post-office orders, Peters. I believe in advertising, Peters. We’ve just seen the benefit of it.”
Lally retreated another step toward the door.
“If you please, ma’am,” she said, in a little fluttering voice, “I will come and play for you later—”
“No you won’t!” interrupted Mrs. Wroat. “Now you are here, you’ll stay here till I am through with you. Do you know who I am?”
Lally brought to her support a pretty, girlish dignity which sat well upon her round gipsy face.
“Yes, madam,” she answered; “you are Mrs. Wroat, the aunt of Mr. Blight.”