"You may bring me some milk and macaroons."
As Mr. Raleigh was about to obey, his little apparition of the wood suddenly appeared in the doorway, followed by her nurse,—having arisen from the discipline of bath and brush, fair and spotless as a snowflake. She flitted by him with a mocking recognition.
"Rite!" cried a voice from above, familiar, but with how strange a tone in it! "Little Rite!"
"Maman!" cried the sprite, and went dancing up the stairs.
Mr. Raleigh's face, as he turned, darkened with a heavier flush than half a score of Indian summers branded upon it afterward.
"That is Mrs. Laudersdale's little maid?" asked he, when, after a few moments, he brought the required salver.
"Yes,—would you ever suspect it?" Numberless as had been the times he had heard her speak of Rite, he never had suspected it, but had always at the name pictured some indifferent child, some baby-friend, or cousin by courtesy.
"She is not like her mother," said he, coolly.
"The very antipodes,—all her father.—Bless me! What is this? A real
Laudersdale mess,—custards and cheesecakes,—and I detest them both."
"Blame my unfortunate memory. I thought I had certainly pleased you,
Miss Helen."