CHAPTER VII.
"Who do you think," exclaimed Lady Anne, as she entered the drawing-room late next day with an open letter in her hand, "is coming to London?"
"Uncle Frank," cried Isabella, whose quick eye had caught sight of the hand-writing.
"I wish you would call people by their right names," said her mother, pettishly; "you know very well that Mr. Glentworth is not your uncle, and I should not suppose that he would like to be called so."
Isabella was silenced, though she could not but remember that he always seemed pleased at the appellation given him when they were children, and that he himself used the term in the numerous kind little notes that accompanied his numerous presents. They had not seen him for years; still "Uncle Frank " was among their most agreeable recollections. The few pretty things, whether trinkets or toys, that they possessed, were all his gifts. If ever any of the girls had taken a fancy to personify their good genius, they would certainly have given to his image all they remembered of "Uncle Frank."
There was a less cordial feeling on Lady Anne’s
