"Oh, nothing," said Maria, in a tone which implied everything had. "It is true, we are obliged to send her away; but there is no use making a talk about it. It is no business of anybody's, is it?"
"Oh, dear no," said the Squire, nervously.
"I should think one's poor relations might be sent to their native obscurity, without everybody's taking it up," added Maria.
"Yes—but she seems so sweet-tempered. I should have thought her a great acquisition to your family party."
"You do not really mean to say you think so?" said she, looking as if she would say—"I know you are a better judge than that"—"She is sweet in company, I know—but in private she is as haughty as a young duchess—She even finds fault with mamma. She comes of a good family, certainly; but, I fear, she is something like the dregs of the cask, only a little bit turned sour."
Mr. Stokes began whipping his boots, as if greatly annoyed at the dust upon them.
"Oh, dear," said Maria; "let me get you a duster."
She instantly sprang to an old arm-chair, and bringing one from its secret recesses, began dusting his boots, upon her knees, before he had time to prevent her.
"Well," she said, rising, and resuming her seat, and glancing at his large, but well-turned foot, "there is nothing to be ashamed about."
"Really," he said, jocosely, "I ought to feel flattered."