out his hand to her again. "Will you come now?"
"Now—just as I am?" She turned with an immense appeal to her stepmother, taking a leap over the mountain of "mending," the abyss of packing, that had loomed and yawned before her. "Oh, may I?"
Mrs. Beale addressed her assent to Sir Claude. "As well so as any other way. I'll send on her things to-morrow." Then she gave a tug to the child's coat, glancing at her up and down with some ruefulness. "She's not turned out as I should like; her mother will pull her to pieces. But what's one to do—with nothing to do it on? And she's better than when she came—you can tell her mother that. I'm sorry to have to say it to you—but the poor child was a sight!"
"Oh, I'll turn her out myself!" the visitor cordially announced.
"I shall like to see how!"—Mrs. Beale appeared much amused. "You must bring her to show me—we can manage that. Good-bye, little fright." And her last word to Sir Claude was that she would keep him up to the mark.
