he was not, and could never hope to be, a Sanderson.
It was, therefore, the more surprising that Aunt Annie should take so great an interest in the waif that the Kellys had adopted. None knew the name of its parents, none so much as ventured to hint at the source of its origin, yet the mandarin-in-chief accepted it as soon as she set eyes upon it, and month by month, year by year, to the increasing surprise of the clan as a whole, her regard for the creature waxed in ever growing proportions.
Mrs. Francis—A Miss Best, of Sheffield—had given an account of her afternoon call at Bowley, which she had timed as usual for the day after Royalty had paid its annual visit. Mrs. F.—in the family, she was always Mrs. F.—had then seen Mary for the first time. And although she had five of her own, the child had made a great impression. She was like a fairy, with vivid eyes and wonderful hair, which Aunt Annie used to brush over a stick every time she came to Croxton Park Road; her clothes were simple and in perfect taste, but of a style and quality far beyond the reach of Mrs. F.'s own progeny. She was then a little more than three, and not only Mrs. F., but others, according to Aunt Annie's account of the matter, had been greatly struck by her. She certainly made a picture with her dainty limbs, her laughing eyes, her flaxen curls. All the same, it was very absurd that the child should be turned out in that way. Eliza and Joe could not possibly afford it, and if the old lady was responsible, as was feared was the case, she ought to have had more sense than to set her up in that way.
As the result of inquiries, Mrs. F. felt bound to
