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“There is a young lady here, to be sure,” said Mrs. Bertrand, “but you can’t see her just at present, for she is talking on petticlar business with my Lady Frances Somerset above stairs.”

“Tis well,” said Dinah Plait: “I would willingly restore this purse, not to the young creature herself, but to some of her friends,–for I fear she is not quite in a right state of mind. If I could see any of the young lady’s friends.”

“Miss Burrage,” cried Mrs. Bertrand, in a tone of voice so loud that she could not avoid hearing it, “are not you one of the young lady’s friends?”

“What young lady’s friend?” replied Miss Burrage, without stirring from her seat.

“Miss Burrage, here’s a purse for a young lady,” said Mrs. Puffit.

“A purse for whom? Where?” said Miss Burrage, at last deigning to rise, and come out of her recess.

“There, ma’am,” said the milliner. “Now for her glass!” whispered Mrs. Puffit to Mrs. Bertrand. And, exactly as it had been predicted, Miss Burrage eyed her aunt Dinah through her glass, pretending not to know her. “The purse is not mine,” said she, coolly: “I know nothing of it–nothing.”

“Hetty!” exclaimed her aunt; but as Miss Burrage still eyed her through her glass with unmoved invincible assurance, Dinah thought that, however strong the resemblance, she was mistaken. “No, it can’t be Hetty. I beg pardon, madam,” said she, “but I took you for–Did not I hear you say the name of Burrage, friend Puffit?”

“Yes, Burrage; one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire,” said the milliner, with malicious archness.

“One of the Burrages of Dorsetshire: I beg pardon. But did you ever see such a likeness, friend Barker, to my poor niece, Hetty Burrage?”

Miss Burrage, who overheard these words, immediately turned her back upon her aunt. “A grotesque statue of starch,–one of your quakers, I think, they call themselves: Bristol is full of such primitive figures,” said Miss Burrage to Clara Hope, and she walked back to the recess and to Lady Di.

“So like, voice and all, to my poor Hester,” said Dinah Plait, and she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Though Hetty has neglected me so of late, I have a tenderness for her; we cannot but have some for our own relations.”

“Grotesque or not, ’tis a statue that seems to have a heart, and a gude one,” said Clara Hope.

“I wish we could say the same of every body,” said Mrs. Bertrand.

All this time, old Mr. Barker, leaning on his cane, had been silent: “Burrage of Dorsetshire!” said he; “I’ll soon see whether she be or no; for Hetty has a wart on her chin that I cannot forget, let her forget whom and what she pleases.”

Mr. Barker, who was a plain-spoken, determined man, followed the young lady to the recess; and, after looking her full in the face, exclaimed in a loud voice, “Here’s the wart!–’tis Hetty!”

“Sir!–wart!–man!–Lady Di.!” cried Miss Burrage, in accents of the utmost distress and vexation.

Mr. Barker, regardless of her frowns and struggles, would by no means relinquish her hand; but leading, or rather pulling her forwards, he went on with barbarous steadiness: “Dinah,” said he, “’tis your own niece. Hetty, ’tis your own aunt, that bred you up! What, struggle–Burrage of Dorsetshire!”

“There certainly,” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, in a solemn tone, “is a conspiracy, this night, against my poor nerves. These people, amongst them, will infallibly surprise me to death. What is the matter now?–why do you drag the young lady, sir? She came here with me, sir,–with Lady Diana Chillingworth; and, consequently, she is not a person to be insulted.”

“Insult her!” said Mr. Barker, whose sturdy simplicity was not to be baffled or disconcerted either by the cunning of Miss Burrage, or by the imposing manner and awful name of Lady Diana Chillingworth. “Insult her! why, ’tis she insults us; she won’t know us.”