Pretty ladies in fashionably pitched bonnets smiled, and said, "One of your little ones, Mrs.Buller?
What a pretty little thing!" and duly sympathized over the sad story which Aunt Theresa seemed almost to enjoy relating.

Sometimes it was agony to me to hear the oft-repeated tale of my parents' death, and then again I enjoyed a sort of gloomy importance which gave me satisfaction.

I even rehearsed such scenes in my mind when I was in bed, shedding real tears as (in the person of Aunt Theresa) I related the sad circumstances of my own grief to an imaginary acquaintance; and then, with dry eyes, prolonging the "fancy" with compliments and consolations of the most flattering nature.

I always took care to fancy some circumstances that led to my being in my best dress on the occasion.
Gentleman company did not haunt my new home as was the case with the Indian one.

But now and then officers of the regiment called on Mrs.
Buller, and would say, "Is that poor Vandaleur's child?
Dear me! Very interesting little thing;" and speculate in my hearing on the possibility of my growing up like my mother.
"'Pon my soul, she _is_ like her!" said one of the "middle ones" one day, examining me through his eyeglass, "Th' same expressive eyes, you know, and just that graceful gracious little manner poor Mrs.Vandaleur had.