Buffborough, when that nobleman was ambassador
at Paris.  Griffin Blunt had won him from
the diplomatic service, and although he lost
promotion, if not caste, by the change, the valet
clung with strange tenacity to his new master,
in whose service he had now been three years.
Master and man alike suited each other.  Each,
perchance, had his own game to play, and played
it with tranquil skill.  Mr. Blunt declared that
his man Constant was unrivalled.  "None of
your five-act comedy valets,"  he would say,
"but a steady-going, responsible fellow, who
knows his business, and goes about it without
boring you.  He's a proud fellow enough.  Sells
my old clothes to a Jew, and has his own coats
made by my tailor.  Never dresses beyond his
station, however.  He does me credit; and,
egad! I fancy he shares in it, though I dare say
he's got much more money than I have."  I
fancy Monsieur Jean Baptiste Constant had.

As for the third person in this group, poor
little Lily, the child was placidly slumbering in
the folds of the great warm shawl.  She had
cried herself to sleep in the hackney-coach, and
her waking, when the vehicle stopped at
Rhododendron House, was but for a moment.
Monsieur Jean Baptiste Constant laid her gently
down in the state arm-chair, with its elaborately
worked anti-macassar: slightly to the horror
of Miss Celia Bunnycastle, who had never
seen a new pupil permitted to occupy that
imposing throne of maroon-coloured morocco,
and then stood respectfully in the background,
a demure smile mantling on his dark face.
Adelaide Bunnycastle admitted in the inmost
recesses of her heart that the scene was
eminently romantic.  It was like Lara; it was
like the Corsair; it was like Thaddeus of
Warsaw.

Meanwhile, Mr. Blunt had allowed his mantle
to drop gently from his shoulders, and accepted
with his gracefullest bow the seat offered him by
Mrs. Bunnycastle, who had reserved the moreen
morocco fauteuil for his reception, but had, in
stress of upholstery, been fain to fall back on a
high-backed chair of walnut wood.  He was
overwhelming in compliments and apologies for
intruding on the ladies at so unseemly an hour;
pleaded stress of business, and an imminent
departure for foreign parts.

"Ah! he's been abroad, has he?"  mused
Mr. Drax, in the dark.  "The man-servant's
a foreigner too.  Let's have another look at
him."  And in his anxiety to obtain a better
view, Mr. Drax, slightly derogating from his
reputation for discretion, opened one of the
doors yet a little and a little more, till it
creaked.

Mr. Blunt started.  "What the devil is that
noise?" he asked, with an abruptness not
precisely in unison with the tone of mellifluous
suavity he had adopted a moment before.

Mrs. Bunnycastle had no time to be shocked
at the irreverence of the stranger's query.  She
was too much flurried by the creaking of the
door, and in a nervous murmur laid the blame
of the occurrence on the cat.  Mr. Blunt seemed
perfectly satisfied when the grave, respectful
voice of Monsieur Constant gave a fresh turn to
the conversation.

He had politely declined the seat offered him
by the youngest Miss Bunnycastle, and remained
standing; but now advanced a couple of paces.
"Monsieur, whom I have the honour to serve,"
he said, "has brought the little girl of whom
mention has already been made.  Monsieur is
ready to pay the sum agreed upon, fifty guineas,
for one year's board and education, and only
requires a little paper of receipt undertaking
that no further demand shall be made upon him
until a year is past."

"We don't even know the gentleman's name
if we made such a demand," Mrs. Bunnycastle
remarked, with a smile.  "But the young lady
must be called by some name or other."

"Certainly, certainly,"  broke in the dandy.
"Call her Floris.  I'm Mr. Floris."

"Floris; a very pretty name indeed,"  said
Miss Barbara, writing it down on a sheet of
paper. " And her Christian name?"

The master looked uneasily at the valet.  I
think he had forgotten his daughter's name.

"Lily," said Monsieur Constant, thus
appealed to.

As he spoke, the child woke up from her
sleep, and thinking herself called, answered
with a sob that she was "vay tyde."  The
sound of her voice was a signal to the two
younger Miss Bunnycastles to hasten to the
arm-chair, to unrol the little one from her
shawl, to kiss her, and smooth her hair, and
fondle her, and go through the remainder of the
etiquette invariably observed at Rhododendron
House at the reception of a new pupil of tender
age.  Not that the Miss Bunnycastles were
either hypocritical or ill-natured. They were
naturally very fond, of children, but they saw so
many, and so much of them.

The required paper was duly made out, and
signed by Mrs. Bunnycastle; and Monsieur
Constant, advancing to the table, respectfully placed
a little wash-leather bag, containing fifty-two
pounds, ten, in the hands of the schoolmistress.
Nothing loth, Mrs. Bunnycastle proceeded to
count it; and even the eyes of her two eldest
daughters twinkled as the sovereigns gave out
their faint "chink, chink." Barbara Bunnycastle
was insensible to the gold's seductive sound.
Her eyes wandered from the master to the
valet, and her soul was filled with wonder and
admiration for both.  It was like the Cottagers
of Glenburnie.  It was like the Children of the
Abbey.  It grew more and more romantic every
moment.

"There is only one little thing more,"  said
Mrs. Bunnycastle, rather hesitatingly. "Has—
a—has your—has the gentleman (she
indicated Monsieur Constant) brought the young
lady's boxes?"

"What boxes?"  asked the dandy, with a
polite stare.

"Her clothes—her linen," explained all the
Bunnycastle family with one voice.

Francis Blunt, Esq., looked at them, generally,