"Take the book to his lordship, Thérèse," she said, and then, instead of moving with the child, she again walked to the window, and, leaning her head against it, looked out. The hand hanging against her dress trembled violently.
"What did you want me to look at, my dear?" said Lord Lackington, taking the book in his hand and putting on his glasses.
But the child was puzzled and did not know. She gazed at him silently with her sweet, docile look.
"Run away, Thérèse, and find mother," said Julie, from the window.
The child sped away and closed the door behind her.
Lord Lackington adjusted his glasses and opened the book. Two or three slips of paper with drawings upon them fluttered out and fell on the table beneath. Suddenly there was a cry. Julie turned round, her lips parted.
Lord Lackington walked up to her.
"Tell me what this means," he said, peremptorily. "How did you come by it?"
It was a volume of George Sand. He pointed, trembling, to the name and date on the fly-leaf--"Rose Delaney, 1842."
"It is mine," she said, softly, dropping her eyes.