"Miss Ledbury," he began.
"Not Miss Ledbury. I am Miss Aspinall, her niece," said the lady; she was not pleased at the mistake.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said poor father. "I understood——"
"Miss Ledbury is not very well this morning," said Miss Aspinall. "She deputed me to express her regrets."
"Oh certainly," said father. "This is my little daughter—you have seen her before, I suppose?"
"No," said the lady, holding out her hand. "How do you do, my dear?"
I did not speak. I stared up at her, I felt so confused and strange. I scarcely heard what father went on to say—some simple messages from mamma about my writing to them, and so on, and the dates of the mails, the exact address, etc., etc., to all of which Miss Aspinall listened with a slight bend of her head or a stiff "indeed," or "just so."
This was not encouraging. I am afraid even father's buoyant spirits went down: I think he had had some idea that if he came himself he would be able to make friends with my school-mistress and be able to ensure her special friendliness. But it was clear that nothing of this kind was to be done with the niece.
So he said at last,