my lady gave me. Besides, there is a number under the letters."
"Yes, seven."
"That was my device. It rhymes with heaven, where my lady,—I mean my late lady—is now taking precedence even of marchionesses."
Arminell said nothing. The woman's mind was like her parlour, full of incongruities.
"Look about you, miss," continued Mrs. Saltren; "though I say it, who ought not, this is a pretty and comfortable house with a certain elegance which I have introduced into it. My brother, James Welsh, is a gentleman, and writes a great deal. You may understand how troubled my husband is at the thought of leaving it."
"But—why leave?"
"Because, Miss Inglett, he will have no work here. He will be driven to go to America, and, unfortunately, he has expended his savings in doing up the house and planting the garden. I am too delicate to risk the voyage, so I shall be separated from my husband. My son Giles has already been taken from me." Then she began to cry.
A pair of clove-pinks glowed in Arminell's cheeks. She could hardly control her voice. These poor Saltrens were badly used; her father was to blame. He was the occasion of their trouble.
"It must not be," said Arminell, starting up, "I will go at once and speak to his lordship."
