For," said she, "Mr.Home _is_ a sensible man in his way, though not very practical: he is fond of science, and lives half his life in a laboratory trying experiments--a thing his butterfly wife could neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed" confessed my godmother, "I should not have liked it myself." In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her late husband used to say, Mr.Home had derived this scientific turn from a maternal uncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed French and Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whom more than one wrote _de_ before his name, and called himself noble.
That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet the coach by which our little visitor was expected.

Mrs.Bretton and I sat alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton being absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the country.
My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed.

It was a wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angry and restless.
"Poor child!" said Mrs.Bretton from time to time.

"What weather for her journey! I wish she were safe here." A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return.

No sooner was the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk and some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his arms.
"Is that the child ?" I asked.
"Yes, miss." I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, but it was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.
"Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren opened the drawing-room door, "and take off this shawl," continued the speaker, extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious haste doffing the clumsy wrapping.