As a
rule, Lucy might pose as a perfect model of the British matron in
her ampler and maturer years--"calmly terrible," as an American
observer once described the genus; but at sight of Melissa she
melted without a struggle. "Poor wee little thing, how pretty she
is!" she exclaimed, with a start. You will readily admit that was
a great deal from Lucy.
Melissa came forward tentatively, a dainty blush half rising on her
rather pale and delicate little cheek. "Mrs. Hancock?" she said, in
an inquiring tone, with just the faintest suspicion of an American
accent in her musical, small voice. Lucy took her hand cordially.
"I was sure it was you, ma'am," Melissa went on, with pretty confidence,
looking up into her face, "because Mrs. Wade told me you'd be as
kind to me as a mother; and the moment I saw you I just said to
myself, 'That MUST be Mrs. Hancock; she's so sweetly motherly.'
How good of you to burden yourself with a stranger like me! I hope,
indeed, I won't be too much trouble."
That was the beginning. I may as well say, first as last, we were
all of us taken by storm "right away" by Melissa. Lucy herself
struck her flag unconditionally before a single shot was fired; and
Bernard and I, hard hit at all points, surrendered at discretion.
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