"She's growing more like her mother than ever," was the father's thought. "I believe it is that profusion of hair which makes her so attractive; suppose it were cut off or rolled up in some way, I could insist——" He paused. "No; I should have mother, and aunts, and uncles all against me. I've had my way in most things, I suppose I must give up now and put a stop to this."
And so ended Mary's days in the counting-house. The time came when also for this short insight into business matters she could thank her father's peculiarities.
Mrs. Armstrong's sisters were, of course, duly informed of all these eccentric arrangements on the part of her husband, but they knew it was useless to interfere. They knew also that his influence over his daughter was too great for them to attempt to counteract it.
"Fancy, Helen," said Mrs. Armstrong one day to her sister, "Mary has not only to make beds and dust rooms, but actually spends an hour in the kitchen every morning learning to make pies and puddings, and even how to roast and boil meat!"
Mrs. Herbert shrugged her shoulders as she replied,—"Well, if all this nonsense about teaching her the duties of servants and such degrading employment does not eventually destroy all refinement of feeling and manners in Mary I shall be very much surprised."
But the two years passed, and the relatives of Mrs. Armstrong were obliged to own that no such terrible result had happened to their niece. She appeared at their social gatherings, she rode with her uncle and cousin Charles on horseback, and drove round the Park with her aunts in an open carriage, showing plainly both in person, dress, and manners, that the study of domestic duties had not unfitted her for good society.
Charles Herbert, the colonel's only child, was not only fond of his cousin Mary, but also a great admirer of his uncle Armstrong. Although scarcely old enough to retain a correct remembrance of the time when this uncle had snatched him from a watery grave, yet his mother had spoken of it to him so often that the impression made on his mind at four years of age had never been effaced. He once encountered Mary coming from the kitchen department with her curls tucked up beneath a white handkerchief, a large coarse apron before her, and her hands covered with flour.
"Why, Mary," exclaimed the youth of nineteen, "what ever will you do? there is mamma at the door in her carriage wailing to take you for a drive!"
"Come to the drawing-room, Charles, and wait for me," she said; "I will be ready to go with you and aunt in five minutes."
"Then you must be Cinderella," he replied, as he followed her upstairs as far as the drawing-room, "and have a fairy to help you!"