with me than they; for sorrow brings hearts
very near! And so, Aunt Grace, I came
to Brighton from Venice, on purpose to see
you and the children, that I might make you
love and adopt me among you. And now,"
she added, her full heart swelhng with its old
hope of love, "you will not turn me away
from your heart? You will not forbid my
cousins to love me? If I have injured you
by my birth —and, dear Aunt, it was not my
own fault —I will make up for it in the best
way I can, and prove to you my love for my
father by loving you. I want some one to be
kind to me, and some one, Aunt, that I can
be kind to and love. I am rich, and I want
some near one to share my riches, and not
strangers; I want one of my own blood, one
of my own kindred. I want you and your
children, Aunt Grace, and you will give them
to me!"

This simple, unworldly outpouring, softened
Mrs. Malahide into almost a smile—a smile
which, when just born around the corners of
her mouth, Estella caught like a ray of light.
Young and impulsive, she ran up to her
Aunt, and, flinging herself on her knees by
her side, putting her arms round her, said,
"You are going to love me, Aunt Grace?
And you will let me love you and the
children?" holding up her face to be kissed.

She looked so lovely, with her beautiful
grey eyes which had their mother's depth,
and softness, and lustre—with her bright
brown hair braided off her low white brow;—
with her small red lips, like little rose-buds
parted—her caressing ways, which had all the
grace and warmth of Italy—her voice so soft
and musical—that the frozen Everett soul
was thawed in Mrs. Malahide, and the iron
bond of reserve which had so long unnaturally
held it prisoner, gave way. She laid her hand
on the girl's shoulder, she looked her frankly
in the eyes. Tears came into her own. She
remembered the time when she was young
and impulsive—when love formed her life
too, and when loneliness and want of love
were death. She stooped down, half
unconsciously, and kissed the face upturning
to hers, murmuring, "My poor desolate
child!"

Estella felt as if a volume had been said
between them—as if a life had been written
in one motherly caress. She cried for joy
—she sobbed—she kissed her Aunt's cold
hands, called her carlssima and carina and
poured out a flood of gratitude and love, half
in Italian and half in bad English, sweeping
away all power of resistance in the living
force of her own tenderness. All was over.
Little impulsive as was any true born Everett,
there was that in Estella which no one could
withstand—such depth, such gentleness, such
fervour, such childish faith! And although
she was by birth so highly objectionable, and
albeit she had been brought up abroad, and
was therefore only half an Englishwoman, the
truth and trust of her nature were stronger
than even Mrs. Malahide's prejudices; so,
giving way for once to her own instincts, she
folded the girl to her heart, and kissed her
again and blessed her.

Jessie Hibbert was delicate. She was
ordered to the sea-side; and Brighton being
convenient on many accounts, Mrs. Hibbert
took her there, notwithstanding the presence
of Mrs. Malahide, who was rather "cut" than
sought after by the family. So, she packed up
a carpet-bag full of tracts; and, it being
Paul's vacation time, they all went down
together—poor Jessie growing paler and paler
every day. Mrs. Hibbert had heard nothing
of Estella. The correspondence between her
and her sister was too slight and formal to
suffer them to enter into details; and when
she arrived at Brighton with her daughter,
and saw a tall, graceful, foreign-looking girl
among the Malahide girls, teaching one
Italian and another singing, showing the
rules of perspective to a third, and
explaining the meaning of architecture to
a fourth, she neither asked her name nor
dreamed of her condition; but treated her as
the Hibbert world in England does treat
governesses—with silence and contempt,
passing her by as something too low to
demand the rights of courtesy. Estella,
frightened at Mrs. Hibbert's iron severity,
prayed that her real name might not be told
—a prayer Mrs. Malahide was only too glad
to comply with. Once, indeed, Mrs. Hibbert
condescended to say, "You seem to have
rather a superior kind of governess there,
Mrs. Malahide," in an acid tone, that seemed
to end the matter and ask no confirmation.
So, Mrs. Malahide made no reply, and the
matter was dropped.

Estella sat among the children like a young
Madonna—with such a prodigality of generous
giving—both of love and mental wealth, both
of worldly gifts and intellectual advantages
—she was so fond, so devoted, so happy in
the joys of others, so penetrated with love—
that even Mrs. Hibbert watched her with a
strange kind of interest, as if a new experience
were laid out before her. Jessie clung
to Estella as to a sister, happy only in her
society, and seeming to feel for the first time
in her life what was the reality of affection;
and Paul treated her, now as a princess and
now as a child, now with a tender reverence
that was most beautiful and touching, and
now with a certain manly petulance and
tyranny. They both loved her with all their
hearts, and were never happy away from
her.

Jessie grew paler and paler every day; she
was thin, and had a transparency in her
flesh painfully eloquent; her slight hands
showed the daylight almost purely through,
and her eyes were large and hollow—the
white of them pearl-coloured and clear.
She complained little: suffering no pain, and
dying away one scarcely knew why. There