Then, once again, after this short break in their lives, everything settled down to the same dull, monotonous routine at Blackheath Hall—a monotony which was not broken for full many a year. During this time the master of the plantation still continued to reside abroad, giving not the slightest hint or explanation to his wondering household as to the why or wherefore of his strange action.
Thirteen years more rolled slowly by, then came the second break in the dull life of the inmates of the old hall. A second letter was received from the master, this time bearing the postmark of far off Egypt, and announcing that by the time they received his letter a child would be sent to them, who was to make her home at the hall—her name was—Jess.
That was all the information the letter contained. There was not even a word as to what position the child was to occupy in the household—whether she was to be reared to take the place of one of the servants when they should be incapacitated by old age from work, or was to be looked upon as a protégée of the master.
In due time the child arrived—an elfish little creature she was—in charge of a woman, a foreigner, who understood no English.
She made no stop whatever, delivering the little one to the inmates of Blackheath Hall and departing immediately, without even partaking of the refreshments which they would have pressed upon her.
They could understand but one thing; she called the little one Jess—just that and nothing more. When they asked her for the little one’s other name, she maintained by motions that she could not comprehend their question.
Perhaps this was true, or it might have been feigned; at any rate, she made all haste from the place, seemingly heartily glad to be rid of her charge.
In Mrs. Bryson’s opinion, the woman was a French maid—and the child bore such a striking resemblance to her that almost every member of the household remarked it.
Little Jess seemed to take kindly enough to her surroundings. She grew and thrived like a weed, springing up much after the fashion of that uncultivated plant.
She was allowed to roam about as she would—bare of foot and hatless—the great mane of curling hair with which nature had provided her being her only head-covering—lithe and graceful as a young fawn in her brown linsey gown, which barely reached the slender, brown ankles.