Now Miss Plantagenet Tudor had by no means a bad heart; she felt really sorry to see such distress. However, it was no business of hers, and she was just going off into her dignified gloom again, when her blue eyes spied something thin, white, and lace-like under the edge of the big chest in the corner.
There was the missing handkerchief, the cause of all this woe. Should she show it to them, and make the poor things happy? Yes, she would; she knew Ethel would, if she were there. And so, with the lofty grace which was all her own, Miss Sophonisba Sylvia Plantagenet Tudor fell flat, face downward, upon the floor, with one stiff arm stuck out straight before her.
Norah rushed to pick her up, and as she stooped she too saw the handkerchief, and clutched at it.
"La, Miss Ethel," said the little school-room maid, "there's such a funny tale Mrs. O'Flannigan's been telling in the kitchen. I know you'd like to hear it--it's about a doll."
"Oh, Susan, I don't think I can bear to hear about dolls to-night. Who's Mrs. O'Flannigan?"
"The washer-woman, miss; and she lost your ma's best pocket-handkerchief, and very likely would have had to gone to prison, and been hung" (oh, Susan! Susan! that was a dreadful stretch of imagination on your part), "only her little girl Norah's doll fell down, and when they picked it up it was a-pointing in the corner, and there was the pocket-handkerchief; and Norah she says she's sure she done it a purpose."
"Why, of course she must have. What a dear delightful doll! I think, Susan, really, that I should like to see her. May I?"
"La, miss, of course you may. I'll tell Mrs. O'Flannigan to bring her."
Ah, little did Sophonisba Sylvia guess where she was going that evening when Norah wrapped her carefully in a corner of her shawl, and trotted off by Mrs. O'Flannigan's side through the gas-lit streets! They went in by the kitchen steps--a way Miss Tudor had never been before; but somehow the great tiled hall looked strangely familiar; and who was that coming a little timidly out of a door held open by a tall and powdered footman?
Ah, dear Young People, it is as hard to write of joy as of sorrow. Ethel's shriek rang through the house, and brought her papa, Sir Edward, from his billiards, and Lady Ponsonby from her drawing-room, in a tremendous hurry.