She read an hour, in clear, distinct tones, which, although her ladyship was hard of hearing, she had no difficulty in catching every word.
“That was reading worth listening to,” she said, heaving a sigh of appreciation. “Now put the book aside, and rest a while.”
“I am not weary; let me read you something else,” she answered.
“No, no; I’ll not listen to any more now; but if you do not mind, I’d like you to sit with me a while longer.”
“Yes, certainly, if you wish.”
“Nobody cares for an old mummy like me,” (how Brownie wished she would not call herself such horrid names), “and I do get lonely staying by myself all the time; though the time was when there were few who were not glad to seek the society of Lady Ruxley. Minnett, my maid, is no company, and I’ve not been able to find any one who was willing to be companion to a deaf old woman.
“They try to be polite,” she went on garrulously, “to me when I go down into the drawing-room, because they know I’m rich, and they think it won’t do to cross me; but I know my room is better than my company. Nobody but Charles cares for his old aunt; he’s Lady Randal’s son, and as good as gold. He’s always civil, and would give me his arm out to dinner as gallantly as to the handsomest belle in the kingdom. He believes in the old proverb about ‘honoring the hoary head,’ which is more than most young people nowadays do. How is it, young woman—do you like old folks?”
She had run on in a rambling sort of way, but as she asked this question, she turned to Brownie, and eyed her keenly.
“I had a dear aunt, who was all the friend I had in the world since I was a little baby. She was both father and mother to me, and I shall always feel tenderly toward old people for her sake,” Brownie replied, the quick tears springing to her eyes.
“Is she dead?”