“Yes; she died the fifth of last September.”
“Was she old and ugly and withered like me?”
Poor Brownie! it was a hard question, remembering so vividly as she did Miss Mehetabel’s fair, lovely face, set in its framework of clustering, silvery curls.
The comparison was not favorable, to say the least, to this antediluvian before her.
She flushed with embarrassment as she gently replied:
“All old people grow wrinkled, you know, and her hair was much whiter than yours.”
Lady Ruxley chuckled merrily over this non-committal answer.
“Young woman, you are as ‘wise as a serpent, and as harmless as a dove,’ and I’m of the opinion that your aunt might have thought considerable of you. What was her name?”
“I was named for her,” the young girl replied, evasively.
“Mabel Dundas. It is a pretty name; I like it.”