Mrs. John, released from her stair-head, came up presently; Bill Chevenix was with her. “Dear Aunt Wenman,” she said, “I haven't had a word with you since you came; but I'm sure you've been happy.”
“Miss Sanchia and I have been swearing eternal friendship,” said Lady Maria.
“Exchanging drops of blood, eh, Aunt?” chirped the cheerful youth. “Nothing like it.”
“I have no blood to spare, William,” she replied, “and if I had, Miss Sanchia has too much. Now you can take her away while I talk to Helen. Good-by, my dear,” she bade Sanchia.
“Good-by, Lady Maria,” the girl replied, with deeply sincere eyes. “You've been very kind to me.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Lady Maria. “I like you. Now run away, the pair of you.”
“Right, Aunt,” said Chevenix, and crooked his arm.
After a decent interval, in which we may suppose formal visits exchanged between Charles Street and Great Cumberland Place, Sanchia set up her rest in the former mansion. The time was full June.