BOOK II.

_August 1, 1685._

LITTLE did I think, when I closed the last book, that the new one would open under such changed circumstances. I had been having a pretty hard time for some days. Mrs. Williams was ill for a week, and not able to get out of bed: so I had the whole care of my mistress; and a handful she was, to be sure, and as cross as two sticks. She who takes to her bed on the smallest ailment, and will have the whole house running if her little finger aches, was quite sure there was nothing the matter with Mrs. Williams, and that she could get up if she only thought so.

Then she would veer round to the other extreme: Mrs. Williams had an infectious fever, even the plague; she would die in the house, and give us all the infection, and there would be the funeral.

In vain the doctor assured her it was only a severe cold, which would get well with nursing. If that was all, why need Williams lie in bed? "She" had had plenty of colds, and nobody thought any thing of them, but she was a poor, forsaken creature that nobody cared for. And then the expense: she should die in an almshouse, she knew she should.

"Then you will be happier than a great many of your persuasion, madam," said the doctor. "Better die in an almshouse than in jail or on the scaffold, as so many are doing just now."

My lady was silent at this, and I saw her glance at me.

"I should not think such severity would help to make his Majesty popular," observed Mr. Andrews, who had come in with Bab to give us a call.

"It does not," said the doctor, who is much about the court, and who is, in fact, one of those who attended his late Majesty in his last illness. "But I do not think the king cares to be liked as his brother did; he would rather be feared. I dread, sir, we shall see great troubles and changes before many years are past."

"There, don't talk about it," said my lady hastily: "it is not safe." And she began to ask Mr. Andrews about the credit of somebody in the city who owes her money. But the fright did her good, and she behaved much better afterward.

I had one comfort in a letter from Mr. Morley, sent me by a private hand. It was kindly writ, as usual, but says nothing of public affairs. One thing I am resolved on: I will never give him another private meeting.

Well, Mrs. Williams was about again, and things had fallen into their usual course. I had been out to do an errand for my mistress, and she had given me leave to make Bab Andrews a little visit. Bab was not at home, and I was turning from the door, when I met Mary Mathews.

"You are to come home directly, Mrs. Dolly," said she, quite breathless with her haste. "My lady sent me for you, and desires you will make no delay."

"Why, what now?" said I. "Hath my lady taken a fit again?"

"Not so, but there is a lady come to see you," said Mary. "She is sitting in the withdrawing-room with mistress."

"In the withdrawing-room!" I repeated, in wonder, knowing that my lady never enters that room if she can help it. "Did you see the lady? Is it my Lady Clarenham?"

"The lady who came to see you before? No, but a much handsomer lady, and very richly dressed. I think my mistress called her Lady Fullham, but I am not sure."

"Fullham? I have heard that name somewhere, but I can't tell where," said I.

But I had not much time to speculate thereon, for we were already at the house. I made myself neat, taking very little time about it, for I was running over with curiosity.

As I entered the room, I found myself face to face with a handsome lady, a little past the prime of life, very richly dressed, but in a sober, matronly fashion. There was something oddly familiar in her face, too.

"This is Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, madam," said my mistress, taking me by the hand to present me, as if I had been a daughter of her own, a thing she never did before. "Dolly, this lady is Lady Fullham, who has come to see you on an important matter."

I can't tell how many or what wild notions darted through my mind. The chief was the wonder whether this lady were not some friend or relation of Mr. Morley's to whom he had recommended me, as I remember he once spoke of doing. I was soon undeceived, and in a surprising way.

"Come hither, and speak to me, my child," said the lady, after she had, as it seemed to me, looked me all over in a moment with her keen dark eyes. "I am your mother's own sister and your aunt."

The room did seem to turn round with me at these words. My mother never spoke of her own family, who were bitterly opposed to her marrying a soldier and a poor man. She did say on her death-bed, "Dolly, you were named for your aunt, my only sister. If you ever have a chance, make friends with her, and give my love to her. I am sorry now that I have never written to her, though I shall never regret my marriage."

I recovered myself as quickly as I could, curtsied deeply, and received my new aunt's kiss, but in silence, for I literally could not speak.

"You did not know you had such a relation, I suppose," said my aunt.

"No, madam—yes, madam," I faltered, like a fool. And then, making a great effort, "My mother told me on her death-bed that I was named for you. It was almost the last word she said."

"And why did not you or your guardians let me know, child?" she asked, rather sharply. And then, more gently, "But I dare say you did not know where to write. My father forbade my holding any intercourse with my poor, unhappy sister, and perhaps we obeyed him too literally, and after I had daughters of mine own—However, that does not matter now."

"I will leave you to yourselves for a while," said my lady, rising.

I gave her my arm to her own room, and returned to my new aunt, whom I found viewing the pictures and ornaments with a critical eye.

"This room is very handsomely furnished, though a little out of date," said she. "I should hardly have expected such taste in a city woman, as I understand Lady Corbet to have been before her last husband married her."

I told her the room had been fitted up by Lady Jemima, my cousin's first wife, and was, I believed, just as she left it.

"Oh, that accounts for it!" said she. "Lady Jemima was of an excellent old family."

(I wonder does being of an old family give one an infallible taste. I suppose, as Mr. Pendergast says, one family is really about as old as another.)

Then my aunt had me sit down by her, and began to catechise me rather sharply, but not unkindly, about my mother and her affairs. She was visibly touched when I told her of my mother's troubles and death. And, when I could not forbear weeping, she called me "poor child," and gave me her own smelling-bottle.

"Well, well, I would I had known!" said she. "I would never have left her to die among strangers. But my first husband hated London, and would never come hither; and Sir Robert is not much better." Then she began to ask me about my education, and I answered her frankly. Finally she asked if my lady was kind to me.

"Please excuse me from answering that question, madam," said I. "My mistress gave me a home when I had nowhere to go, and it would ill become me to accuse her."

My aunt looked displeased for a moment, and then her brow cleared.

"You are right, child, and your words show a ladylike spirit. One can see you are of gentle blood. Now go and ask Lady Corbet if she will give me the favor of an interview to-morrow. I will not ask to see her again to-day, as she seems but feeble; and, beside, I want a little time to consider."

I went up to my mistress, who fixed ten of the clock for receiving my aunt. (How strange it seems to write the word!) I told my aunt, who said she would come at that hour.

"By the way, child, I hope you are not a Presbyterian, as I hear these people are," said she, as she was going away.

"No, madam," I answered; "I was brought up in the Church of England."

"That is well," said she. "They are a pestilent set of traitors, as the late unhappy outbreak hath shown."

I could not quite stand this. "Not all, madam," said I. "I have not heard a single Presbyterian speak of the late rebellion but with regret and abhorrence."

"Don't answer me back, child," said my aunt sharply. "Your mother should have taught you better than that. There, I am not angry, but don't do it again."

She kissed me, and I attended her to the door. She had a fine coach and two men. I think she must be very rich. How odd if she should take a fancy to adopt me! But that is not likely, as she tells me she hath two daughters of her own.

_August 3._

But unlikely things do happen. Lady Fullham came again next day, and was closeted with my mistress full two hours. I expected every moment to be sent for, but no message came. And by and by, I saw my aunt drive away. Every thing went on as usual till after dinner, when my lady called me to her side, and bade me sit down.

"So I am to lose you, Dolly, it seems," said she. "This fine country lady desires to adopt you into her own family, and to give you a home and all the privileges of a daughter. And of course she has the best right to you, as your mother's sister."

"Methinks her mother's sister was somewhat slow in asserting her right," remarked Mrs. Williams, who was knitting, as usual, and with that peculiar click of her needles which always indicates displeasure with her.

"Hold your tongue, Williams," retorted my mistress. "Lady Fullham did not know of her niece's existence."

"Then she might have known," said Mrs. Williams, who is not easily put down. "She could have asked, I presume."

"Will you be quiet?" said my lady. "You see, Dolly, the doctor says I must go to the Bath and stay several months, and that makes it needful to shut up the house. I can't afford to keep two establishments, nor could you stay here alone."

"There would be no need of that," said Mrs. Williams. "Mrs. Dolly could go with us to the Bath. I am sure you will need her quite as much there as here."

"Hold your tongue, Williams!" This is her regular retort, and Mrs. Williams cares for it as much as for the sparrows' chirping outside. "It would increase my expenses very greatly to carry Dolly with me, and that is what I cannot afford. I am like to be driven to beggary as it is, with all this journeying and expense."

Mrs. Williams's needles rattled like a soldier's equipments, and her chin went up in the air with its own peculiar toss.

My lady continued,—

"Besides, my Lady Fullham, being own sister to Dolly's mother, has the best right to her. She is wealthy, and can take her into society, and give her many advantages."

"She 'can,'" said Mrs. Williams. "The question is, whether she 'will.'"

"She says she intends to place Dolly on the same footing as her own daughters," returned my lady. "Those were her very words, 'On the same footing as my own daughters, in every respect.'—What do you say to that, chick?"

"My aunt is very kind," said I. "I must say that it is pleasant to me to think that I have some relations. I have been so alone in the world hitherto."

"Better kind strangers than strange kin," snapped Mrs. Williams.

"Perhaps Dolly thinks she has not found the kind strangers," said my lady.

"Oh, yes! I have had a great deal of kindness from strangers," said I. "Nobody ever had a better friend than Mrs. Williams has been to me." And in something of my old impulsive fashion, I threw my arms round the dear old woman's neck, and gave her a good hug, thereby causing great damage to the knitting.

Mrs. Williams returned my kiss; and then, gathering up her work, she left the room.

"Williams, where are you going? Come back," cried my lady.

But Mrs. Williams only said she would come back presently, and closed the door after her. When she did come back, I saw that she had been weeping.

"Well, now, if you have done with your playacting, you and Williams, perhaps you will listen to sense," said my lady peevishly. "Lady Fullham and I have settled it all between us. Dolly is to go to her on Monday."

"That is very short notice, seeing that this is Friday," observed Mrs. Williams. "Mrs. Dolly will have no time to get her clothes ready; and she needs new under-linen, stays, and gloves, and what not."

"There you are quite mistaken," said my mistress triumphantly. "Lady Fullham expressly said Dolly was to bring nothing with her but the most necessary clothes. She preferred to provide every thing herself.—So, you see, Dolly, you need not take the blue silk gown I gave you, nor the cloth mantle. They will do for some one else, if ever I have another in your place, which I doubt."

"But, my lady, I have nothing else to wear,—not a decent thing," I faltered, somewhat aghast.

"To be sure you have not," said Mrs. Williams decidedly. "I presume the lady did not want her niece to come to her like a beggar-wench from the Bridewell; nor would you, my lady, like to be thought so mean and stingy as to send her out in that guise. You would not like to have this fine lady telling every one of her acquaintance that Lady Corbet was too mean to give her gentlewoman decent clothes."

Now, if there be one thing that my lady cares more for than for her money, it is what people say about her.

"Of course not, of course not. I am only telling you what the lady said. Of course, Dolly will take with her what clothes she has already. All I mean is, that she need not wait to buy any more.—There, go away now, Dolly, and let me have a rest. You can be putting your things in order, if they need it."

But they do not need it. Thanks to my dear mother's lessons, followed up by Mrs. Williams's, I have the fixed habit of mending my clothes as they want it. I almost wish I had something to do to pass away the time.

To think that, after almost three years of slavery,—waiting on my lady's whims, and wearing out my eyes and fingers in everlasting seaming and stitching, and my throat in reading stupid books of divinity that I could never make head nor tail of,—after all, I am really to be a young lady, and take my place as such in my aunt's family.

I hope I shall be able to content her. She seems like one who would be mighty particular. I can see that she thinks a great deal of birth and family. Well, mine ought to be good enough to suit her, one would think. My mother was her own sister, and my father was related not distantly, though I don't know just how, to the old Corbet family in Devonshire and Cornwall. Sir Charles told me about it once,—that is, he began to tell me, but my lady, who never could endure to have him speak to me, came down on us like a dragon. Alas! Poor man. He was very good to me. I have been looking at his last gift, which I always wear about my neck. It is egg-shaped, about as large as a small pigeon's egg, and there is something inside which rattles a little. I cannot see any way to open it, but then I would not do so if I could,—at least I think not.

There is one thought that troubles me a good deal. How shall I ever see or hear from Mr. Morley? He can come to visit my lady, and I can at least see him and hear him talk, and now and then get a few words to myself. As to meeting him in the park again, I have solemnly resolved not to do that. But he is not in London, nor like to be for a long time, and then his regiment is stationed in the west. My uncle and aunt live not very far from Exeter, and perchance we may meet.

But my aunt is not going down to the west at present. She has taken a furnished house, and means to remain at least till some time in September, that her daughters may have lessons in drawing and music. I wonder if I shall have them as well. I do love music dearly, but I have not touched an instrument since I came to this house. There is a harpsichord down-stairs, but it is locked and the key lost. Beside that, my mistress hates music.

I can't pretend to say that I am sorry to leave "her." She has never been kind to me, except when she was afraid of me; and she is one of those people who delight to wreak their own discomforts on other people. So sure as money hath not come in when she expected it, or her supper hath disagreed with her, or she hath had an argument with Mr. Pendergast about giving something (and he is not afraid of her, whoever else is), just so surely my ears and shoulders have had to pay the piper. And one never can tell when she will break out. It is like living with some treacherous wild animal. And I don't think I owe her any debt of gratitude for my board and clothes, either. Mrs. Williams herself told my mistress that I earned all I had, and more too; and she is one who never exaggerates, as I know I do sometimes.

I am sorry to leave Mrs. Williams. A better woman never lived or breathed, as I believe I have said two or three times before, but I don't care. She is desperately strict in her notions, and thinks every thing in the shape of amusement is wrong, except it may be a walk now and then, or some kind of fanciful knitting. She would not even have psalms sung in church.

And when Mr. Pendergast asked her how she got along with King David's singers and instruments, she said tartly, "That was under the old dispensation and not any rule for Christians."

Then he fell upon her with St. James, his words, "Is any merry? Let him sing psalms."

But she answered more sharply still, that she read her Bible by the light within, and that these words had a spiritual significance.

"But suppose my inward illumination shows me something quite different from yours, what then?" asked Mr. Pendergast, whereat she was silent.

They are always very good friends, despite their arguments. I don't suppose I shall ever see any of them again, and that I do regret. I wonder whether my aunt will let me visit Bab Andrews. I shall be sorry if she does not, for I love her dearly. I must try to see her to-morrow.

_August 10._

I have been an inmate of my aunt's family a week, and this is the very first minute I have had to write. Somehow we never seem to have any time to ourselves. Even for our hours of retirement and devotion, which are strictly set apart every day, my aunt appoints our tasks of reading; and we must give her an account of what we have read. However, she does leave us alone at such times; and, as I am a rapid reader and have a good memory, I hope I may now and then have a few minutes.

I was all ready on Monday morning when my aunt's carriage came for me; and it was with a strange feeling of acting in a dream that I took my seat in it, beside a somewhat sharp-visaged person who I learned was my cousins' waiting-woman. I was no sooner seated beside her than she began to arrange my kerchief and bodice, telling me that I was not dressed snug enough.

"But we shall soon change all that," said she. "Is your health pretty good, Mrs. Dorothy? You are rather pale."

I told her that it was my natural complexion, that I had never been ill more than two or three times in my life, and then not seriously.

"Are not my cousins healthy?" I ventured to ask.

"Mrs. Betty is well, Mrs. Margaret is rather delicate," was the reply.

I asked how old they were, and she told me that Margaret was eighteen and Betty sixteen.

"Then I am just between them, for I am seventeen," said I.

At that moment I saw Bab Andrews coming out at her father's door, and nodded to her.

"You must never do that when my mistress sees you," was the comment my companion made. "She would be very angry."

"But why?" I asked. "Mr. Andrews is a very wealthy and good man, and his daughter is lovely. Did you not think her nice looking?"

"Yes, she hath a nice face and air," said Mrs. Sharpless. (Such was the waiting-woman's name, she told me.) "But if she were an angel from heaven, it would make no difference. My mistress will have her young people make no friends out of her own circle."

I felt rather dashed at this, and I dare say I showed it. Mrs. Sharpless turned to me, and put her hand on my arm.

"Mrs. Dorothy, though it is not my place perhaps, I am going to give you a bit of advice," said she impressively. "You are but a young thing, and are coming into a new place. Now, mind what I say. If you would get on smoothly and comfortably, you must make up your mind to have no will of your own, but to be governed by my mistress your aunt in all things. 'Tis the only way."

I told her I hoped I knew my duty too well not to be submissive to my aunt who was so kind as to adopt me.

"Why, aye, you seem a towardly young lady, and well-bred. And I am glad your cousins will have a companion of their own age, poor things! Well, here we are."

It was with no little trepidation that I found myself ushered into my aunt's presence. She was sitting in her own parlor, surrounded by heaps of silk and linen, laces and other things of the sort; and a man was in attendance with more bundles still. My aunt received me kindly, and kissed my cheek.

"You may carry Mrs. Dorothy to her cousins' room, and tell them from me they may have a holiday till dinner to get acquainted with their cousin. And do you unpack her mail, and lay out her things upon the bed, that I may look them over. We must put her wardrobe in hand directly, that she may be decent to go out with me."

Mrs. Sharpless curtsied, and led me up-stairs, and along a passage to a green door covered with cloth. This she opened, knocking first, and ushered me into a somewhat bare room, where two young ladies were sitting,—one at her book, the other at the harpsichord where she was making terrible work of her scales. They both looked round as we entered, but neither stirred till Mrs. Sharpless said,—

"Mrs. Margaret and Mrs. Betty, this is your cousin Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, with whom your mother desires you to become acquainted; and to that end she gives you a holiday till dinner-time.—I will go and lay out your things, Mrs. Dorothy, and then come and show you your bedroom."

Margaret and Betty came forward and kissed me, rather coolly I thought; and there was a minute or two of awkward silence, which Betty broke by asking in a business-like way,—

"Well, why don't you become acquainted, since that is the order?"

"Betty!" said Margaret warningly.

"Because I don't know how," said I, laughing in spite of myself. "At school, when new girls came in, we used to get acquainted by asking their names and histories, but I dare say you know all that."

"Oh, yes, my mother was pleased to inform us that we had a new cousin who would share our studies and pleasures!" Betty laid an emphasis on this last word, which was almost bitter I thought. "And I suppose she told you all about us."

"Not very much," I answered. "Mrs. Sharpless told me that Margaret was the elder, and that she was not very strong."

"Are you?" asked Betty. I told her yes.

"So much the better for you," said she shortly, and then she began to ask me about my accomplishments. Could I sing? Could I play? I told her I could do both.

"I am glad on't; that is, if you play well," said Betty. "Meg loves music, and she will have something to listen to beside my horrible strumming."

"And do you play?" I asked, turning to Margaret, who, in as careless an attitude as her stiff chair would permit, was looking at us with soft, wistful, dark eyes, which reminded me somehow of Bab Andrews's dog.

"Yes, but not very well," said she. "But I am glad you can play, cousin Dorothy. Try something now."

"I am not sure I can remember any thing," said I. "I have not touched a harpsichord in three years."

However, I did make out to play one of my old lessons, and then I sang a song out of one of Mr. Shakspeare's plays, "Hark! The lark at heaven's gate sings."

It was always a favorite of mine, and I was so glad to sing and play once more, that I did my very best. Margaret sprang up from her chair and came and stood by me. As I ceased and looked up, I saw that her color was deepened, and there were tears in her bright, soft eyes. Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Sharpless came and called me. But, as I rose from the music-stool, Betty caught my hand, and gave it a squeeze.

"You have made Meg happy," said she. "I shall love you if you can do that."

"And I am sure I shall love you," I began to say.

But Mrs. Sharpless hurried me away, saying that my aunt was waiting. My heart sank fathoms deep as I suddenly remembered my precious writing-books and thought of their meeting my aunt's eye. When I entered the room which was to be mine, however, I saw no trace of them and my aunt was as kind as ever.

"I have been looking over your things, Dorothy," said she, "and I am pleased with the order in which you have kept them. It shows that you are neat, and clever with your needle. I see you have a Bible and Prayer-Book: that is well. But why are you so pleased?"

For I had caught up the Prayer-Book with a little cry of joy. It was my dear mother's gift, which my mistress had taken away from me when I first went to live with her. I explained the matter to my aunt. She nodded.

"Just what one would expect such a person to do," was her comment.

Now, I don't believe my mistress's religion had the least thing to do with her taking away my Prayer-Book. I don't believe Mr. Pendergast would have done it, or poor dear Mr. Baxter, though he did use to send me such dreary, uncomfortable books to read. It was just a piece of my lady's spite, like her forbidding Mrs. Williams to knit, because it gave her the fidgets to see and hear the needles. Marry, she soon grew tired of that. But I had learned already not to argue with my aunt.

"But you must have a new book to carry to church," said she. "My daughters attend church every morning at eight, and I shall expect you to go with them. Is this old-fashioned silk your best dress?"

"Yes, madam."

"And who made it."

I told her I had made it myself out of an old one of my Lady Jem's.

"Well, well! It is neatly done and does you credit, but you must have two or three new ones made in the fashion. I dare say your mistress did not care much for that. But remember it is a duty we owe to the world, to dress becomingly to our stations. There, now, you may go back to the schoolroom, and Sharpless will arrange your drawers for you. She is your cousins' attendant, and will be yours as well."

Mrs. Sharpless followed me into the passage with my handkerchief. As she gave it into my hands, she said in a low tone,—

"Your copy-books are on the high shelf in your closet behind the books, Mrs. Dolly. It is a good place for them, and you might as well leave them there."

I nodded assent, well-pleased for the moment to think they had escaped my aunt's eye. But, when I had a little time to think, I must say that I was not pleased to think this waiting-woman should have my secret in her hands. She seems a good woman, and very devoted to her young ladies, especially to Meg; and it was kind of her to save me from being disgraced with my aunt, and perhaps sent back on my mistress's hands. Oh, dear, I almost wish at times that I had never seen Mr. Morley, and yet!—But be as it may, there is no use in wishing things undone.

We dined at noon, as the fashion is now; and, being used to have my meal an hour earlier, I was hungry enough. The table was beautifully set out, and the dinner elegantly cooked and served. But I can't say I enjoyed it very much. My aunt seemed to watch every motion and every mouthful. It was,—

"Betty, where are your elbows?"

"Margaret, hold your fork more easily. There, now, you have dropped it," as poor Meg, startled, let her fork fall with a great clatter. "One would think you had lived in Wales or some other place where forks have not yet come into fashion."

And so on, to the end of the dinner. I noticed that my cousins ate very little, but, as for me, I made a good meal. After dinner, we were dismissed to dress for going out with my aunt. Meg is about my height: so I was arrayed in one of her dresses, which was almost too small for me, slender as I am. But by dint of twitching my stay-laces so tight that I could hardly breathe, Mrs. Sharpless got it on.

"Oh, dear, I can never breathe in this!" said I.

"You must get used to it," said Betty. "Straitjackets are the fashion here, as well as in Bedlam. You ought to be used to strait-lacing, Dorothy, living among Presbyterians so long."

"That is a different kind of lacing," I answered. "I have never been used to dress tight. My mother and Mrs. Williams thought it very unwholesome."

"And they are right. It is murderous," said Betty.

"Hush, Mrs. Betty, you must not speak so," said Mrs. Sharpless, but not unkindly. "You don't think your mother would do any thing murderous, do you?"

"She would not mean to," said Betty, and that was the end of the matter.

My aunt carried Betty and myself to the park in her fine coach, to take the air among the great folks. But I don't think there were as many gay equipages as used to be in the old king's time. My Lady Castlemain was there, sulky and handsome, lolling back in her carriage, but I did not see anybody take much notice of her. My aunt seemed to have many grand acquaintances, and even exchanged a few words with the king himself. I think he looks more gloomy than ever.

I was presented to the Countess of Sunderland, who had just stopped to take up Mr. Evelyn. He recognized me in a moment, and kindly asked after my health, and when I had heard from my friend. He also told me that Mrs. Patty, my little school friend, had gone to live altogether with her great-aunt. My aunt was talking to my Lady Sunderland, but as soon as we separated, she turned and asked me, rather severely, where I had met Mr. Evelyn, and who he was talking about. I told her all about it. Whereat she remarked that Lady Clarenham was a woman of good family, though her father had taken the wrong side in the late troubles, and that every one respected Mr. Evelyn.

I must say I did not enjoy the drive. My stays hurt me so, I could hardly breathe; and I am not enough used to the swinging motion of a coach to like it even yet. Besides, the passing of the places where I had been in other company did revive my grief, and make me feel more than ever how hungry my heart was for the sight of the dear one.

I liked it better when we went to the shops, where my lady bought me a new Prayer-Book and some other books of devotions and meditations, and a beautiful sewing-equipage for my pocket, and some toilet matters whereof I really did stand in need. Betty timidly asked if she might buy a little flask of aromatic vinegar for Meg, saying that it was good for her headaches.

"Yes, if you choose, though I think Meg's headaches are mostly of the imagination," said my lady.

Betty's cheek flushed, and her lips were pressed more closely together, but they relaxed a little when my aunt added kindly, "But I am pleased to see you thoughtful for your sister, child. Here, you may take a bottle of this distilled lavender, also: I think she likes it, does she not?"

"Yes, madam," answered Betty, and her face grew softer than I had yet seen it.

In the evening my lady went to the play, with her daughters. I was left behind as having nothing to wear, and I was not sorry. I wanted to get off my dress for one thing, and to quiet my head, which was all in a whirl. Certainly it seemed to me the longest day of my life.

After I had practised my music an hour with great delight, I took my work and sat down by the open window, for it was very warm. The house at the back overlooks some fine gardens, so we have good air. I was sorry when Mrs. Sharpless came in and ordered me away, saying I would take cold. I think I would like to be a gypsy or a farmer's wife, and so live in the open air.

It was ten o'clock when my cousins came up to their room. Margaret looked very pale, I thought. They were no sooner inside the schoolroom, than Betty flew at her sister, undid her dress, and unlaced her stays so quickly that the silk laces fairly snapped. Margaret sank down in a chair with a sigh of relief.

"Oh, how good that is!" said she. And then she put her arms round Betty's neck, and her head on her shoulder, and wept hysterically. I brought the flask of lavender-water, and bathed her head, and held my hartshorn salts to her nose, but nothing did any good till Mrs. Sharpless, who had come in, said in a voice of kind authority,—

"Come, come, Mrs. Margaret, this won't do at all! Your mother will hear you."

If I had children, I would not like to be held up to them as a bugbear or a bogy. But it had its effect in Margaret's case. She checked her sobs with a great effort.

"I won't be so silly," said she, with a pitiful smile. "Dorothy will think me a baby."

"Dorothy knows what it is to be tired and overdone," said I, as I kissed her. "But you will feel better when you have rested."

Since then I have fallen into the ways of my aunt's household, and my life goes on like clockwork. Rise at six and dress. Spend an hour in our closets reading of some good book. Then to church to prayers. Then home, to breakfast on bread and butter, and cold water, or very weak broth. My aunt says beer spoils the shape and complexion. Then to appear before my aunt in her dressing-room. Then she examines minutely all the details of our toilets, trying our stays to see if they are tight enough, and commenting on every stray hair. After that, we give her an account of what we have read in our closets, and read aloud to her the lessons of the day.

Then come our lessons,—French and music and Italian. My aunt will have both the girls learn music; and Meg makes great proficiency, but Bess hates it: she has no ear, and does make the most terrible work. In the afternoon we take turns, two to go out with my lady, and one to stay at home, and work at embroidery, or sometimes at plain white seams for some poor body, for my aunt is very charitable. She says we owe it to our position to be kind to the poor, but I don't think I should want any one to be kind to me in that way. Then in the evening we go out somewhere, to a play, or the opera, which is very fashionable just now; or to spend the evening with some friend of my aunt's.

Certainly it is a very different life from that I have been leading the last few years, but I think I go to bed at night quite as tired as I used to when I was running half the day to wait on my mistress. There are many pleasant things which were wanting in my former life, love being the best of all. I do really think my aunt loves me, sharp as she is at times, and I know my cousins do.

Then, I have my lessons, especially my music, in which Mr. Goodgroome says I make great progress; and there is the feeling that nobody grudges me my living. My aunt is generous as the day; and if she checks us in eating and drinking (as I must say she too often does), it is, as she says, for our good, lest we should spoil our figures. I believe I am very perverse not to be happy here, but I am afraid I am not. But I must hurry to put away my book. My work is all done, that is one comfort.

_August 15._

We had rather a painful scene yesterday, in which poor Meg hath been the sufferer, which is uncommon. It is generally Betty who comes in for her mother's anger when she is angry, which, in truth, is not very often. But we had been to a play in which there was dancing; and after we were come home, my aunt gave us the rather uncommon indulgence of a little supper. She was talking of the play and the actors, and remarked that one of them, Becky Marshall, was said to be the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. She asked me if I had ever heard any thing about the matter.

"Yes, aunt," I answered, "I heard Mr. Pendergast say that her father was a most worthy man, who, he thought, could hardly be happy in heaven if he knew how his daughters had turned out. I know that Mr. Pendergast went himself to try to win the girls from their way of life, but he did not succeed."

"I dare say not," said my aunt. "A woman must be pretty well hardened in sin before she would take to such courses, exhibiting herself for money, and in men's attire. But it was a kind and Christian act to try to rescue the poor creature. Who is this Mr. Pendergast?"

"A Presbyterian minister, aunt, whom I used to meet at my Lady Corbet's. He and his wife were very good to me there."

"Oh!" said my aunt, slightly disconcerted, I fancy, that she had been betrayed into praising a Presbyterian minister. "However, I won't say that it was not a good and kind deed," she added; "though, as I said, a woman must be lost to all sense of goodness before she would take such a place at all. When I was young, no women ever appeared on the stage. All the women's parts were taken by boys; and, as I remember, there were some—Bishop Hall for one—who objected even to that, and Mr. Prynne wrote an immense book about it."

"But, madam," said Margaret timidly, "if it be wrong for women to act on the stage, is it not, wrong for other women to go and see them, and thus encourage them?"

My aunt looked at her daughter in amazement. Margaret went on, as if she were determined to free her mind for once, despite Betty's pinches, and the warning glances of Mrs. Sharpless sent from behind her lady's chair. "In the lesson we read this morning, madam, the apostle tells us that women are to be attired in modest apparel, with shamefacedness, not with gold or pearls or costly array; and St. Peter, as I remember, says the same. Now these poor creatures, I suppose, take to the stage to make a living, and no doubt they are bad enough. ¹ But if we go to hear them, and thus encourage them in their miserable way of life, only for our idle amusement, are we not more to blame than they? I must needs think so."

¹ It must be understood that I am speaking of the stage in the time of the Stewarts. Of the stage at present I know next to nothing, save that it is much better than it was then.—L. E. G.

"Marry come up! What sort of Puritan have I for a daughter?" said my aunt angrily. "Upon whom do you presume to sit in judgment, mistress? Do you not see all the very best ladies of the court and in society at the play?"

"And don't you see, Meg, that if we are to take the apostles' words for what they say, we are all wrong together?" said Betty. "What becomes of all our uncovered necks and bosoms and our jewels and gold lace? You would condemn us all in a lump."

My aunt did not see the sarcasm at all, but giving Betty an approving nod, she bestowed on Margaret a severe lecture for her perverseness, ending with,—

"Of course things are different now. We owe it a duty to the world to dress according to our station, and to follow the customs of society; and it is not for chits like you to set up to dictate. You are to do as you are bid."

"I have no wish to do any thing else," Margaret began.

But her mother stopped her, bidding her go to bed, and not appear before her again till she had learned without book three parts of the 119th Psalm in French. My aunt kept us to treat us to plum-cake, seasoned with a lecture on the evil of young people professing to know more than their elders.

As we went up-stairs, we heard Meg sobbing in her room, but she would not let us in.

This morning she was up very early; and, when we went to my aunt, she had her task prepared, whereat my aunt kissed and forgave her. But after all, thinking it over, I can't see but Meg was right. The Bible does say those very words, for I looked them up afterward. I said as much to Betty.

"Of course she was right," said Bess; "that is, if there be any right or reality about it anywhere. I would like to know where in the New Testament my mother finds laid down the duty which Christians owe to the world. I think I will ask Dr. Tenison about that, if ever I have a chance."

"But, Bess, all the ladies my aunt visits, and those whom she holds up to us for examples, do these things," said I. "My Lady Sunderland, as particular as she is, was at the play last night."

"There was a time, or so I suppose, that all the fine ladies went to see Christian men and women and poor captives fight for their lives with wild beasts," retorted Bess. "You know we read about the vestal virgins yesterday, and how they always had the best places."

"Anyhow I am glad my aunt hath taken Meg into favor again," said I. "I could not but wonder at her coming out so. It was not like her."

"You will say it is just like her when you know her better," said Bess. "Every now and then she angers my mother in the same way. I wish she would not; for it does no good, and only brings down a storm which hurts Meg, and some additional task which hurts her still more. Don't you see how pale she is to-day? I dare swear she did not sleep last night. I do think my mother is as blind as a bat. Oh, how I wish something would happen that we might go to my aunt Laneham's again!"

"Why, where is she?" I asked.

"She lives in Biddeford, and my mother sent us to her once when one of our servants had small-pox. Meg was happier there than I ever saw her, though my aunt Laneham is poor, and our meat and lodging were plain enough. But she went out with my aunt and uncle to visit the poor folk and the sick; and then aunt knows how to let one alone, which I believe my mother never can. O Dorothy, I would do any thing in the world for Meg!"

"There is one thing you could do for her," said I, "and that is to take more pains with your music, and not make such dreadful noises on the harpsichon."

Bess turned round and looked at me in amazement, with her eyebrows lifted to the top of her forehead so it was well my aunt did not see her.

"What do you mean?" said she. "You know I have no ear. You said so yourself."

"I never said you had no eyes," I answered. "See here. Your eyes tell you that the notes in that chord are B, D, and G, don't they?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"And they also tell you what are the keys on the harpsichon answering to those notes?"

Bess nodded.

"Then why can't you play those notes instead of scraping our ears by playing F and C?"

Betty's eyebrows came down a little, and she looked like one who has received a new idea. "Do you really think I could learn to play, Dorothy?" she asked.

"I do think so. I won't say you could ever make a great player. Your ear is not fine enough. But you can learn to play correctly if you do but take pains enough, and certainly that would be a comfort to Meg. Her ear is so fine that every discord is a torture to her, though she would never say so."

"She is too sweet and patient ever to complain of any thing," said Bess; "the more shame that she should be murdered by inches, which is what my mother is doing."

"You should not say so," said I, shocked at her words. "Come, now, play your lesson, and I will overlook you if you like."

"And what about your French verb?"

"Oh, I know it already! Come, begin, and I will count for you."

We really did get through the lesson very decently, and I felt paid for all my pains by Betty's glance when Meg said this morning, "You played that nicely, Bess. It was really a pleasure to hear you."

When the lesson was done, Betty put her arms round me and kissed me.

"I am so glad you came here, Dorothy.—Are not you, Meg?"

"Yes, indeed!" says Meg.

"That is, for our sake I am," said Bess. "I am not sure I am for yours."

"Then you should be," said I; for I won't encourage Bess in her discontent, which only makes matters worse. "I am sure your mother is most kind, far beyond any thing I had a right to expect, in putting me, a stranger, on an exact equality with her own daughters in all respects, and presenting me to all her friends."

"Yes, that is a great privilege," muttered Bess.

"It 'is' a privilege, as you would know, if you had been motherless so long as I have," I answered. "Granting for the sake of argument that my aunt makes mistakes, yet you must see that all she does is with a view to our good. She said last night that if she could see us well settled in the world, she would be ready to leave it."

"Does she not talk like a preacher?" said Betty, turning to Meg. "'Granting for the sake of argument.' Did you learn that from your Mr. Pendergast, Dorothy."

I never mind Betty's mocking speeches; for to me, at least, there is no unkindness in her mockery.

"I never learned any thing but good of him, and I dare say I might have learned more than I did," I returned.

"What sort of person was he?" asked Margaret. "Was he a gentleman?"

"I don't exactly know what you mean by a gentleman."

"What! You don't know what is meant by a gentleman, when you see such shining examples before you every day!" said Betty. "Look at my Lord Chesterton, if you want the model of a gentleman."

"He certainly was not a bit like my Lord Chesterton," said I, "for he was a little, meagre man, very poorly dressed. But I must say I liked him much the best of the two, if I must compare them."

"And he did not flourish his snuff-box, nor swear every other word, nor tell stories about Mrs. This and Lady T'other, and boast of the conquests he had made? Of course he could not be a gentleman," said Bess.

"Don't let us spoil our holiday talking of such things," said Margaret. "I hate the very sound of them. Sing us a nice song, Dorothy. Sing that lovely hymn of Bishop Ken's that Mr. Goodgroome brought us the other day, and let us forget the world for a little."

I sung the hymn, and then another that I learned of Bab Andrews, about the golden city of Jerusalem, with which Margaret was greatly delighted, and asked me who was the author. I told her it was writ in Latin by St. Bernard, I believed, but I did not tell her that it had been done into English by poor Mr. Fairchild, as a farewell token to his mistress. I felt as if Bab's confidences were sacred.

"That just suits Margaret. Would you not like to be a nun, Meg?" asked Betty.

"No," said Meg, after a little consideration, "I don't think I should. I would like to live as my aunt Laneham does, or like my Lady Jemima Stanton, that the dean's wife took us to see once when we were little girls. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, indeed," said Bess. "What a happy day we had! But I am not sure I should like to live like my aunt Laneham all the time,—to wear grogram and homespun, and count every sixpence and every slice of bread as she does."

"Is she so very penurious, then?" I asked, thinking of my mistress. "I don't think Meg would like that at all, not if she had had my experience."

"My aunt Laneham is not one bit penurious," said Meg, rather indignantly. "I never saw people so open-handed as she and my uncle. But he is a clergyman, with a large parish, and a not very large living; and my aunt is obliged to spare that she may have wherewith to be generous."

"That is a very different matter," I answered. "That is like Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, if you are not tired of hearing about them."

"I am not," said Meg. "I like to hear all about such people. Tell us more about them."

So we sat down, I with my knitting,—which my aunt highly commends, and has given me silk thread enough for a pair of hose,—and the girls with their white seam, and I told them all I knew about the minister's family and household,—how poor they were, and what hard work they often had to appear even decently clad; and how Mrs. Pendergast and her oldest daughter Beulah went about among the poor folks, and had the little ones come to them to learn to read and sew; and so on, making a long story out of a little, because I saw that Meg was pleased. When I stopped at last—

"I don't see but good people are much alike everywhere," said Meg. "This minister's wife seems very much like my aunt Laneham."

"What is that?" said my aunt, opening the door. "What about aunt Laneham?"

I started, she came in so quietly, but Meg answered tranquilly,—

"I was only saying, madam, that my aunt was like a very good woman Dorothy was telling us of, who visited the poor and sick, and taught little maidens to read and sew."

"Ah, poor sister Laneham! She threw herself away dreadfully. She might have been living in one of the finest country-houses in Devon, but she would have her own way, and she got it. I always thought her parents much to blame in giving in to her. But your grandfather and grandmother were very lax with their children. Talking of clergymen, Margaret, I hear you were not at church this morning. How was that?"

"I was there, madam, but I felt faint and ill, and so sat under a window, that I might have the fresh air," answered Meg.

"Oh, very well! Lady Carewe told me she did not see you."

"Spiteful, tattling old toad!" muttered Betty between her teeth, which my aunt, overhearing, rewarded with a sharp rap from her fan-handle, which was meant for her shoulders, but unluckily fell across her check instead, making a red bar on the white skin. Betty uttered a cry of pain, for she has been having the toothache lately, and her cheek is very tender.

Meg started forward, her pale cheek flushed for once.

"You must not give way to these megrims, Meg," said my aunt, taking no notice of Betty. "They are more than half fancy, and the more you give way to them, the more you may. Let me see you down-stairs in an hour, nicely dressed. My Lady Sunderland has lent us her box for the play to-night. Dorothy, you may wear your green silk, and Margaret may do the same. Betty will wear her old black silk."

With that she left the room; and Meg and I set ourselves to comfort and quiet Betty, who was in an agony of rage and shame, and of pain as well, for the blow had set her teeth to aching. I know one thing: if ever I have a grown-up daughter, I will never strike her.

"You cannot go to the play to-night, Bess, that is one comfort," said Meg.

And indeed her face was swollen and angry, and growing worse every moment.

"I will go," said Bess. "I will shame her before all the company."

"Shame your own mother!" said I. "Remember, her shame is yours; and, beside, my aunt did not mean to strike your face."

All we could do did not avail to prevent Bess from going down to the parlor, though her face was a woeful spectacle, with a fiery red bar across it, and the blood settling round her eye. Luckily, there were no strangers present. My aunt did look disconcerted for a moment.

"You cannot go to the play in this state," said she. "I did not mean to strike your cheek, nor to strike so hard."

"It does not matter, madam," answered Betty.

"Don't answer me in that tone, child," said my aunt, more gently than I expected. "Do you not know, Betty, that young folks must be corrected sometimes? How else would they be fitted to take their proper places in society? My whole desire is to see Margaret and yourself, and Dorothy too," she added kindly, "well settled in the world, and answering to what the world expects of ladies in your condition."

"And what about the other world, madam?" asked Betty, who had got the bit between her teeth, and was reckless of consequences. "That is a world, which, if all we hear be true, is likely to last a good deal longer than this. How about that?"

My lady looked really grieved.

"I did not expect such a question from my daughter," said she. "Do I not take all the pains possible with your religious education? Do I not give you the best books of devotion that can be found both in French and English? Do I not send you to church every day and twice on Sundays? What more can I do? But there, I pardon you, child. You have your father's temper, and one must make allowances. Go to your room, and bid Sharpless make a poultice for your face, and I will send you some custard for your supper. But try to rule your spirit, Betty, and do not doubt your mother's love, though she may think it needful to cross you at times."

I saw that Betty was softened in a moment, though she said nothing. Meg ventured to ask if she might stay with her sister, but my aunt said no. She had made up a party for her box, and could not have it broken up. So we went to the play; and there we met Lord Chesterton, who devoted himself to Meg all the evening, much to her annoyance. I could not but wonder if it were necessary to the character of a fine gentleman to take the name of God in vain at every breath, as they all do. Mr. Evelyn is as fine a gentleman as any of them, and I never heard him do it. It used to scare me dreadfully at first; but I am growing used to it, and even find myself catching up the words, which some ladies use very freely, I find.

_August 20._

I have seen Mr. Morley.

We went to church as usual this morning. Ursula Jackson comes every Sunday with her husband, and I have got a habit of looking for her, and sometimes of speaking when we meet. My aunt doth not object, because she says we owe it to ourselves to be civil to all, each in their degree.

Well, I looked round as usual, after we had curtsied to my Lady Carewe (a wonderful object she is in her black locks and rouged cheeks, which show the crow's feet and wrinkles through all her paint). Well, I glanced toward Ursula's pew, as usual, and there sat Mr. Morley. I was so astonished I could hardly command myself. While I was looking, Ursula and her husband came in; and Mr. Morley rose to make room for them, with a polite salute, which Mr. Jackson returned, though he looked like a small thunder-storm. Mr. Morley bowed very particularly to me; and I returned his salute, not knowing what else to do.

When we came out, my aunt asked me who it was that had bowed to me. I told her it was a distant cousin of Lady Corbet's, whom I had met at her house.

"One of her way of thinking?" she asked.

"No, madam," I answered. "He has a company in Col. Kirke's regiment."

"Ay, I thought he looked like a soldier," was her comment.

As we passed out, I heard Mr. Jackson rating the old pew-opener for daring to put a stranger into his seat. The poor old woman protested that she meant no offence, saying the gentleman had told her he was Mrs. Jackson's cousin. Ursula stood by without a word. I fancy she hath met her match, and I am not one bit sorry if she has.

What was my surprise, on coming down in the evening, to find Mr. Morley with my aunt, and evidently in favor!

"Mr. Morley has brought me a letter from your father, girls," said my aunt, as she presented him to us. "He is on his way up to town, and as Mr. Morley passed him on the road, he was kind enough to take charge of a packet. Your father was obliged by business to stop a few days on the road, but he will be here the last of the week."

Both the girls uttered exclamations of joy. They are clearly very fond of their father, who I fancy is more indulgent than their mother.

"Sir Robert is happy in having such affectionate daughters," said Mr. Morley, bowing; "and I am glad to find my old acquaintance, Mrs. Dolly Corbet, in such pleasant circumstances."

"Yes, my girls are fond of their father, who spoils them dreadfully," said my aunt, looking not ill-pleased, however. "Dorothy has not yet seen her uncle."

Mr. Morley staid to supper, and made himself so agreeable that I felt proud of him. Of course, we had no chance to talk together in private, but it was enough for once to be in the room with him, to hear his voice, and catch now and then a glance from his eye meant for me alone.

When at last he took his leave, my aunt asked him to come again.

I should be the happiest girl alive only that Meg has taken an unaccountable dislike to him. When I ventured to ask her what she thought of him, "Why, as I thought when I saw the great American viper that Mr. Boyle showed us in his museum," said she. "His head hath just the same shape; only they say the viper gives warning when he is about to strike, and I doubt this one would not."

"You are not used to be so uncharitable, Meg," said I, very much vexed.

"Perhaps I am wrong," said she, "but I took a dislike to the man the moment I saw him."

"You ought to like him because he is my friend," said I.

"That is the very reason I don't," she rejoined.

"And what say you, Betty?" I asked. "Don't you like him, either?"

"I don't like or dislike him," said Betty. "He is like all the rest,—stale, flat, and unprofitable. Oh, how I do hate it all! But I am glad my father is coming up: do you know why?"

"Because you wish to see him."

"Yes, and because I know very well he will never endure to stay here long. He hates London as much as I do, and you will see he will whisk us down to dear old Devon before three weeks are over; and oh, how glad I shall be!—Won't you, Meg?"

"Yes, if I go," said Meg wearily. "Dolly, will you let Sharpless come to me first to-night, I am so tired?" (For we take turns in being first waited on.)

"You may have her all the time, for all I care," said I. "You know I am used to dressing myself. But why do you say, 'if I go'? Of course you will go with us."

She shook her head sadly, but said not one word, as she passed into her room and closed the door. I looked at Betty.

"What does she mean?" said I.

"I don't know," answered Betty, "only Meg always thinks she shall die young. But there may be another reason. Come into my room, Dorothy."

She shut the door, and said in a low tone, "I think my mother has a match in hand for her."

"You don't mean Lord Chesterton!" I exclaimed, rather more loudly than was prudent.

"Hush!" said Bess. "Yes, I am afraid so."

"But she cannot abide him!"

"He is an earl's son and probable heir to a dukedom," said Betty bitterly.

"And an atheist, open and avowed."

"Well, not exactly that. You know it is the genteel thing for men to have doubts about religion."

I thought of Mr. Morley, and was silent for a moment. Then I asked, "But what think you your father will say?"

"He would not let Meg be sacrificed—or think not—if she were utterly set against this man," answered Betty slowly; "though Sir Robert rarely interferes with my mother. I think you will love him, Dolly, though he is rather rough in his ways at times. But I don't know that his oaths and stories are any worse than those of the fine gentlemen that visit my mother."

"I don't see how they could be. But, Bess, don't be too much cast down. It may well be that we are borrowing trouble about Meg."

"Well, I hope so. There is one thing about it, I don't believe any one she marries will trouble her long. Good-night, Dolly."

_August 27._

My uncle has come, a big, roistering country gentleman, who kissed me on both sides of my face, and bade God bless me, and in the same breath damned his man for not bringing his bootjack. But I like him for all; there is something real and genuine about him. He scolded about our pale cheeks, vowed he would have us out stag-hunting, and asked me if I could ride.

"I don't know, uncle. I am like the man in the jest-book, who said he did not know if he could play the fiddle, because he had never tried."

He laughed a great, hearty laugh, and said he was glad to see I had a spirit of my own. Then turning to his elder daughter,—

"Why, Meg, thou lookest more like a white bind-weed than ever. What ails thee, child?"

"Margaret hath been a little drooping, but we shall soon have her better," said my aunt. "Will you not wash and dress before supper, Sir Robert?"

"Oh, ay, I suppose so!" said he, and strode away whistling.

The house seems brighter already for his presence. He hath begged a holiday for us that he may take us to see the sights. My aunt gives in to him wonderfully, and Betty hangs on him like a burr. He has taken us to see the lions in the tower, and some other sights, and given us two or three drives out of town to one resort and another. Among others we went to Hackney, and saw the place where I went to school. The old house was pulled down, and a new one was going up, which I suppose my poor mother's three hundred pounds helped to build. I would I had the ordering of a few clever hobgoblins for the owner's benefit. He would not stay long in his fine mansion.

Mr. Morley hath called two or three times, and hath even dined with us. My uncle says he is a rising man, in favor at court, and like to do well. He hath paid me some attention, but of course we have no chance to talk together in private. Only last night we had a few words over the harpsichon, where he had been singing with me.

"I am afraid you don't care for me any more, Dolly," said he. "Your grand friends and admirers have made you forget your poor soldier of fortune."

"I know not why you should say that," I answered. "Would you have me run after you?"

"Ah, I see you have learned 'repartee!' But do you remember our interviews in the park? I would we could have another such walk together as we had that last morning. Come, meet me to-morrow in the old place."

"I cannot if I would, and I would not if I could," said I. "I promised solemnly I would never do that again."

"And to whom did you give that promise? To your amiable mistress, or to her vinegar-faced waiting-woman? Pshaw, Dolly! Vows were made to be broken."

"I tell you it is impossible!" said I. "You might as well ask me to meet you in the moon."

My aunt called me at that moment, so I could say no more. I don't know how it is: I ought to be the happiest girl in the world now that I can see Mr. Morley so often, and that my uncle and aunt like him, but I am not. I suppose perfect happiness is not for this world.

_September 1._

My uncle already talks of going down to Fullham, and the girls are well-pleased. I don't want to go at all.

_September 2._

The murder is out. Lord Chesterton has made proposals for Margaret, and been accepted. My uncle pished and pshawed a little about giving his Meg to a courtier, but gave in when my aunt represented the likelihood of Meg's being a duchess; for the duke's elder son is lately dead, and the other is a poor, sickly little lad. Margaret says little, but makes no objection. She grows thinner and paler every day, but my aunt does not seem to notice it, or has not till lately. Now she makes her take a little ale with her dinner, and two or three nights she hath herself brought her a cup of wine whey at night.

I cannot make Meg out. Sometimes I think she is pleased with the thought of being a duchess and living in that grand house, though that is not like her. For my own part, I would rather live in a cabin with the man I love. I said as much to Meg one night.

"And so would I, perhaps, if things were different," said she, with a moonlight smile; "but, as it is, it does not matter."

"Why do you always say that?" I asked. "I think it matters a great deal."

"If you were to stay only an hour or two at an inn on your way home, you would not care much, though your accommodations were rough, and your companions not greatly to your mind," said Meg.

"I don't understand you," said I.

But I had no chance to ask any more, for my lady called us to see the splendid presents of jewels and lace that the duke hath sent to Margaret. The poor little boy fades every day, they say, and the duke treats his nephew already as his heir. I never in all my life saw such pearls,—as big as peas, and of a wonderful purity and lustre. And there is a sapphire jewel, in a ring, which is like a piece out of the blue sky. Meg regarded them all with the same tranquil gravity with which she looks at all the splendid preparations for her bridal.

"My uncle has been very kind, has he not?" said Lord Chesterton, who had himself brought the jewels.

"Yes, every one is very kind," said Margaret gently.

"But you don't care for the silly things, after all?" said he, looking earnestly at her. (I do think he is in love with her.) "Mrs. Margaret, what can I do to give you a pleasure? I would sell my soul to see you look pleased for once."

Margaret turned her lovely eyes upon him with an earnest expression.

"Then if you would really please me, my lord, there is one thing you might do, and that is to break off such expressions as you used just now."

(For he had confirmed his words with an oath, as usual.) "I beseech you to break off this habit of taking God's holy name in vain on every light occasion. That indeed would give me great pleasure."

"Well, I will," said he, kissing the hand she had laid on his arm in her earnestness. "I know 'tis a bad habit, but after all, it means nothing."

"That is just the trouble," said Meg. "It is against that very meaningless invocation of the holy name that the command is aimed. I beseech you, my lord, if you care for me, to break it off."

"I will try, indeed I will," said he; "I'll be—" Then catching himself up with an embarrassed laugh, "There it is, you see. But indeed, Margaret, I will try, if only to please you."

I never liked my lord so much as at that moment. He forgot his affectations, and looked and spoke like a man.

My aunt, coming back just then, began praising the jewels.

"I never saw any thing so beautiful," said she. "Of what do they remind you, Margaret?"

"Of the twelve gates that were twelve pearls," said Margaret; "and of the walls of the city that are built of precious stones."

I saw the tears come to my Lord Chesterton's eyes as he turned away to the window.

"You see my daughter is very religious," said my aunt.

"I would not have her otherwise, madam," he answered. "My own mother is a devout woman, and prays for her scapegrace of a son every day. Perhaps her prayers may be answered: who knows?—I think you will love my mother, Margaret. You and she will take pleasure in trotting about to the cottages together, and the north winds will blow some roses into these pale cheeks. I do hope you will like my mother."

"I am sure I shall," said Margaret, with far more interest than she had showed in the jewels. "Does she visit among the poor folk? Tell me about her."

Lord Chesterton looked as pleased as a boy at having found something to gratify his lady, and they talked together a long time. I believe there is good in him, after all.

I heard a bit of good news to-day; namely, that Mr. Baxter is released from prison on payment of his fine, which it seems was raised by his friends. I wonder if my mistress gave another seven shillings. Mr. Morley brought the news, adding that folks said his Majesty was courting the Dissenters.

"And what is that for?" asked my uncle, who, I believe, thinks of Dissenters as of some troublesome kind of weeds or animals.

"I can but tell you what is in men's mouths," said Mr. Morley. "'Tis rumored that his Majesty intends to issue an act of toleration to his own sort of people, and that he will include the Dissenters, so as a little to take off the edge, as it were."

"And they will jump at the chance, of course," said my uncle; "and we shall have a conventicle at every corner, eh, Dolly? Don't you think so? Won't your Presbyterian friends jump at the chance?"

"I think not, sir," I answered. "Once when the matter was talked of, I heard one of their divines say that they would not accept toleration on any such terms."

"And did you ever see this Mr. Baxter, this Kidderminster bishop as Jeffreys called him?" asked my uncle.

"Oh, yes, sir, many times! He was very kind to me. I am glad with all my heart he is out of prison."

My aunt frowned. "You are too forward, Dorothy," said she. "Nobody asked your opinion about the matter. Young ladies should be seen, not heard."

"Oh, let her alone! I like to hear the wench stand up for her friends," said my uncle. "But you are not a Presbyterian, are you, Dolly? We can't have that, eh, Mr. Morley?"

"No, sir, I am not a Presbyterian, but I have had good friends among them, as you say," I answered.

"That's well, and I 'am' sorry for the poor things out our way," said my uncle musingly. "I do think they have had very hard measure, very needlessly hard. No offence to you, Mr. Morley."

"I cannot take offence where none is meant," said Mr. Morley. "You know, sir, that war is a rough trade, and Col. Kirke's lambs learned it in a rough school."

"True, 'tis a rough trade, but it need not be made rougher," said my uncle.

And he began to tell one tale after another of horror, which made me sick.

Surely Mr. Morley did never stain his hands with such cruelty. He has always seemed so kind-hearted.

After dinner, my aunt took me to task sharply for my forwardness. She has been sharp with me several times of late, and also with Betty, while she is very tender and gentle with Margaret.

_September 3._

Our new rector preached to-day,—a very fine sermon, I thought, on the words, "He that believeth on me hath everlasting life." I saw my aunt look displeased at some passages, but Margaret drank it in as if it had been the water of life. As for Betty, I fancy she never listens to a sermon, but she did give the preacher some of her attention to-day.

"Well, and how did you like the preacher?" said my uncle, when we came home.

"I cannot say that I liked him," replied my aunt. "It seems to me that his doctrine, if received, would make room for all sorts of immoralities. If a man only believes right, he can do whatever wrong he pleases."

"Under your favor, madam, I think not so," said Margaret. "Do you not see that any one who in his heart believes in the Lord Jesus Christ must needs act so as to please him? Such a person would make a conscience of his very thoughts, knowing that by them he must please or displease the Holy Ghost dwelling in his heart."

"That is rather an awful thought, Mrs. Margaret," observed Lord Chesterton, who had come to dine as usual.

"Awful, but comforting," said she, giving him one of the sweet smiles she bestows on him nowadays, and which make him flush like a boy.

"Well, well, we won't debate the preacher at present," said my aunt. "Go, girls, and make ready for dinner."

"So you liked the preacher," said I, as we went up-stairs.

"Yes, indeed," she answered with earnestness. "I think he hath taken the last stone out of my road."

I did not understand her, and there was no time to ask. We went to church again in the afternoon, but we heard nothing of the sermon, for Meg fainted, and had to be carried into the vestry. She revived presently, enough to be taken home in the coach which my lord sent for, but she has not been up since, and looks badly.

_September 6._

Margaret has been down to-day for the first time since her fainting on Sunday, but she looks pale. My aunt makes light of her illness to herself, but I see she watches her very closely. Betty attends on her like her shadow. She and I sleep together now. As we are to have so much company in the house, my room will be needed as a guest-room. As we were going to bed, I bethought me to tell Betty of Meg's words, and ask what she thought they meant.

"I don't know," answered Betty. "I don't pretend to understand such matters."

"I think Margaret likes Lord Chesterton better than she did," said I.

"Yes, I said as much to her; and she told me she was afraid so," said Betty.

"What did that mean? Why should she be afraid of liking her bridegroom too well," I asked. "I should say the more she liked him, the better."

"You are just as blind as all the rest," answered Betty impatiently. "Can't you see an inch before you? I don't so much wonder in your case, but I am astonished at my mother. But some people never will believe what they don't like to believe. I suppose when my mother sees Margaret in her coffin, she will understand at last."

"You think that Margaret is seriously ill, then?" said I, startled.

"I think she is dying, and so does Sharpless," answered Betty. "She will never wear her bridal dress, unless she is buried in it."

"But why should you think so? What ails her?"

"She has been 'murdered!'" said Betty, setting her teeth hard. "Murdered by inches with tight lacing and late hours, and physic to improve her complexion, and all the rest of my mother's regimen."

"Hush!" said I. "You should not say so. Your mother means nothing but what is right, I am sure."

"Oh, yes, she 'means!'" retorted Betty. "She means to take an angel, and make her a woman of the world, but the angel has grown weary, and is pluming her wings for flight. You will see, if you will not believe.—O Meg, Meg, how shall I ever live without thee!"

And with that she burst into tears, and wept so bitterly that my aunt heard her, and came in to see what was the matter. I told her that Betty was grieved about her sister's health, fearing she was seriously ill.

"Is that all?" said she, but not unkindly. "My dear child, you are fanciful, and are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Do you not see that your sister is better already? Do but notice what a sweet flush she has in her cheeks. These fainting-fits are but the natural agitation of spirits at the prospect before her. A month hence you will see your sister a happy bride, and then you will laugh at your present fears. Come, dry your eyes, and go to bed, and all will be well. I am not displeased with you, child. There, good-night."

I was glad that Betty was crying too much to answer her mother a word, for I am always afraid of one of her tantrums. I hope she is mistaken, but I do think Margaret is more out of health than her mother imagines.

I can't but think of Betty's words about making an angel into a woman of the world. Now, the Scriptures talk all the way through as though the world were the enemy of God,—even going so far as to say that any one who is a friend of this world must be an enemy of God. And yet, so far as I can see, my aunt lives for the world: yes, just as much as ever my mistress did; though one cares most for wealth, and the other for fashion and position. And I don't see how one is a bit better than the other.

My aunt will bow to, and exchange visits with, women whom it is impossible she can respect; she will even abase herself to ask favors of them: and why is that any better than the doing of mean things for money? She does seem to me wholly inconsistent. She gives us a book like "The Practice of Piety" or "The Divine Breathings," ¹—books inculcating the very soul of purity and consecration to God,—to read in the morning; and in the evening she takes us to see a play which turns on successful wickedness, and where the name and the laws of God are treated with equal disrespect.

¹ This most admirable little book has lately been reprinted in this country, by Young. I wish some one would do as much for the Practice of Piety, which is now very rare.

My mistress would read the Bible and Mr. Baxter's tractates in the morning, and spend the rest of the day over her accounts, or in exacting the last halfpenny of usury from some poor debtor. And I don't see, for my part, why one is a bit better or worse than another. My mistress talked of owing it to herself to do so and so. My aunt talks of our duty to the world or to society, which is only another name for the same thing.

But the Bible seems to say that the duty we owe to self is to deny it, and the duty we owe to the world is to renounce it, and to labor for its conversion. Now, Bab Andrews really has given up the world; and so, according to Meg's account, hath my aunt Laneham; and I am sure the Pendergasts and Mr. Baxter did not live for it. And, from what Lord Chesterton says, I should think his mother was much such a lady as my aunt Laneham. And I am sure my Lady Clarenham does not live for the world.

And there is another thing. My aunt goes to church and to the holy communion, and says the Creed, and professes to believe all the Prayer-Book teaches; and yet she is not only willing, but delighted, to give her daughter to a man like Lord Chesterton, who is an open unbeliever, and whose course of life hath been somewhat notorious, because he is of great family and heir to a dukedom. No, I don't understand the matter at all.

_September 12._

Margaret is really ill. She lies in bed most of the day, not suffering very much, except from weakness and from the pain in her right side which has troubled her ever since I knew her. I don't know just what the doctor thinks, but the wedding, which was to have been on the 15th, is necessarily put off.

My Lord Chesterton is like one distracted, coming two or three times a day to ask for his lady, and scouring city and country for fruit and flowers and any thing that can give her pleasure. I never thought to like him half so well. I see there really was a man hidden behind the fop and courtier. For one thing, he hath left off swearing at every other breath; and, when a hard word does escape, he looks heartily ashamed. My uncle rallied him, telling him he was growing a Puritan. Whereat, he answered that he would turn Quaker, like Will Penn, if it would please his mistress, at which my uncle clapped him on the shoulder and called him a good fellow.

_September 15._

It was to have been the wedding-day, but no one says a word about weddings now. Only my aunt will have it that Meg is better, which no one else can see.

_September 18._

Meg seems a little brighter. I said as much to Mrs. Sharpless, but she only shook her head and turned away. She has had no hope from the first; yet she is the most cheerful person in a sick-room I ever saw, more so even than dear Mrs. Williams. The new rector hath been to see Meg, at her request, and hath read and prayed with her. She seems to find great comfort in his ministrations. He is rather a plain, awkward man, but I must say he is a much more interesting preacher than old Dr. Martin. He hath prayed for Meg in church. When I told my aunt of it, thinking she would be pleased, she was not so at all; saying that Margaret was not so bad as that, and it would be time to pray for her in church when the doctor gave her up.

I saw Ursula this morning in church. And, as we were detained a little in the porch by a passing shower, we had time for quite a chat. She looks rather thin and worn, I think. I asked her if she were well.

"Yes, well enough, if that were all," she answered pettishly, and then asked me if I ever saw Mr. Morley. I told her he was acquainted with my uncle, and visited at our house, but that he was soon going down to the west again.

"Don't you see him?" I asked.

"No, not often," she answered, turning scarlet, as though with some unpleasant remembrance. "Dolly, whatever you do, never marry a jealous-pated old man."

I did not know what to say to this, so I asked after Bab Andrews.

"She is well," was the reply, "but she has taken an odd crotchet in her head since her father died."

"Oh the good old man, is he dead? How sorry I am!" said I. "Bab will be very lonely. But what do you mean by a crotchet, Ursula? I did not think Bab was given to them."

"No, I know she is perfect in your eyes," said Ursula. "Well, she hath come to the conclusion that England is not good enough for such a saint as herself: so she is even going to leave it, and betake herself to the New England Colonies."

"She told me once she thought she might do so, if she were left alone," said I, "but it was not to New England she talked of going, but to some newer colony farther to the south. I cannot think of the name now."

"Ah, well, it does not matter! It is much the same thing. I can't think what should possess her, for she is left very well off, and might live as she pleased. But it seems Mr. Fairchild's sister and her husband went thither a year ago, and she means to join them. And so Mr. Morley comes often to see you, Dolly?"

"I did not say so," I answered, vexed to feel myself blushing. "He is an acquaintance of my uncle, as I told you."

"Well, don't lose your heart to him, lest you should find he hath more than one string to his bow," said Ursula with an ill-natured laugh.

But the rain holding up there was no more time for converse, at which I was glad. I do wish could see Bab once more.

_September 20._

I have had that pleasure, through my kind uncle's intercession. I was coming down-stairs, when my aunt called me into her room, where an elderly serving-man was waiting, whom I recognized at once as living with Mr. Andrews. My aunt held a note in her hand.

"Dorothy, do you know Mrs. Barbara Andrews?" she asked.

"Yes, madam," I answered: "she is the daughter of the rich goldsmith who died not long ago."

"Oh, I know him!" put in my uncle. "He lived in Lombard Street,—a very worthy man and one who was of service to his late Majesty in the matter of raising money. He did me a good turn once, in the same way. Yes, yes, I remember him.—And so your master is dead," addressing himself to the serving-man. "Well, well, I am sorry. Did he leave any family?"

"One daughter, sir," answered old Andrew.

"It is this young lady who writes to me, very properly and nicely I must say," observed my aunt. "She tells me she is about to go to America, and asks the favor of a day's visit from Dorothy."

"And you would like to go, eh, Dolly? Your face says as much," said my uncle.

"Yes, sir; I should like it greatly," I answered. "Mrs. Andrews was the only friend of mine own age I ever had till I knew my cousins."

"So much the better," said my aunt. "I am no great believer in girlish intimacies, but as this young person is going away so far—What say you, Sir Robert?"

"Oh, let her go, let her go!" said my uncle. "Old Mr. Andrews's daughter is sure to be a pattern of all the graces, eh?" addressing himself to the serving-man, who answered,—

"Mistress Barbara is one of the salt of the earth, sir,—the image of her mother now in glory."

"Well, I am sure I hope so," said my uncle, in his kindly, blunt fashion. "Oh, yes, let her go, my lady! She hath had but a dull time lately. Let her go to please me."

This is my uncle's usual plea when he begs us a holiday, and my aunt never refuses him. With an indulgent smile, she bade me get ready to go with Andrew, for whom she ordered a cup of ale to be brought. I was not long in dressing, and was soon on my way.

I found Bab looking much as usual, but very pretty in her mourning. The house was already partly dismantled, but Bab's own rooms, her bedroom and her little parlor, were untouched.

"Why, this is a pleasure I hardly dared expect!" said she, taking off my hood and kissing me. "But I thought I would not fail of it for lack of asking. Your aunt must be a kind lady."

"She is so, though rather strict in her notions," I answered, "but I believe we owe our debt rather to my uncle, who used to know your good father. But where is your aunt?"

"She hath taken a lodging near to my sister Staines in the country," said Bab. "She would fain have lived with them, but my brother Staines would not have that. He told Hester he would do any thing for aunt Jones except live with her."

"I don't blame him," said I.

"So he has fitted up this cottage for her, and Andrew's sister lives with her to attend on her," continued Bab. "I hope she will be as happy there as anywhere. As you say, Dolly, I do not blame my brother Staines for not wanting her to spoil his children's comfort and his own. But oh, Dolly, what a sad sight is unloving and unlovely old age!"

"It is, indeed," said I, thinking of my mistress. "But was it that drove you to seek peace and quietness in a new settlement among the Indian savages?"

"Why no, not exactly, though I will not deny that I find my aunt's absence a great relief. But my aunt Atherton, my mother's sister, is left quite alone by the death of her last daughter; and you know I always professed myself fond of travelling: so, as some friends of mine are going out, I thought I would even go with them, and try my fortune in the New World."

"You have other friends there beside your aunt, have you not?" I asked.

Whereat she told me of Mr. and Mrs. Stacy, who had gone thither the year before, and read me a letter she had from Mrs. Stacy. If I did not know her to be one of the most particular persons in the world, I should set down some of her accounts for mere traveller's tales: as that the people go a-gathering of their peaches with carts, the fruit hanging on the trees like onions in ropes, and as delicate as our best wall-fruit, and cherries by the cartload, beside many wild fruits, such as strawberries, gooseberries, hurtleberries, and cranberries, which last are admirable for tarts and sauces, and many more such particulars. ¹ Mrs. Stacy says the savages about them are peaceable, good neighbors, and some of them are Christians. She sent Bab a long necklace of their beads, made from shells, and which they use as money, and value above all things.

¹ See Robert Stacy's letters quoted in the "Historical Collections of New Jersey,"—a very valuable book.

This necklace Bab gave me for a remembrance. She also gave me a watch, a toy I have long wished to possess; and this is a very pretty one, with a gold enamelled case, and a pretty picture on the back. I had spent a guinea on a book for her, "The Imitation of Christ," by Thomas à Kempis,—which Meg values more than any book in her closet,—and on a working-case for the pocket, a good, sensible, substantial one, which I thought she might find useful.

The day was all too short for what we had to say; and now, that we are parted, I can think of a hundred questions I had to ask. Bab asked me when I had seen Ursula, and I told her of our conversation in the church porch.

"I fear she is not happy," said Bab. "She said as much to me as that she was sorry she did not marry Mr. Morley."

"I don't believe she ever had the chance," I said, vexed at myself for being vexed.

"I am not sure. He was very devoted to her at one time, but Ursula was bent on making a rich marriage. And so, no doubt, she has, but she may find, as many another hath done, that riches do not bring happiness. There are many things that money can't buy."

"That is true," said I. "I believe Lord Chesterton would give any thing to restore poor Meg to health."

"Is she then so ill? Tell me about her," said Bab; and so I did. She was much interested, and asked about the state of her mind. I told her.

"The dear young lady!" said Bab. "She hath been taught of God, and he makes her way easy. I would I could send her something to comfort her."

"I wish she knew you; you would just suit each other," said I; and I do really think so, though Bab would not go inside a church for the world.

While I was there, a ship's captain, an old friend of her father's, sent her a fine hamper of melons and grapes from Portugal; and nothing would serve but she must put up some of the finest for Margaret. We parted with many tears, and Bab promised to write me when she arrived at her new home.

My aunt was rather displeased with me for being so late, but relented when she saw the beautiful fruit Bab had sent to Margaret. She was pleased, also, to commend my watch, and to say that Mrs. Andrews seemed a kind-hearted girl, and one of a good taste and fancy. She especially admired the lace kerchief and cap of her own work which Bab gave me, saying they were neatly done and very prettily fancied.

"See there, Betty," said she; "you might work as well as that if you would have patience and take time."

"I suppose Mrs. Andrews likes such work," said Betty.

"I don't think she is so very fond of it," said I, "but her father was fond of seeing her work, and Bab would do any thing to pleasure her father."

"And Betty will not do every thing to pleasure her mother," said my aunt.

"That is not quite true, mother," answered Betty; and I saw she was moved, by her using the word which she seldom does. "I would do any thing I could do to please you when you put it in that way, but when people talk of doing things because the world expects it, and because society demands it, I do not care a fig, and that is the truth. I never made any promises to the world, only to renounce it."

I expected my aunt would be displeased, as she generally is at Betty's outbreaks, but she did not seem to be.

"Then, my daughter, will you not try to please your father and mother? And we will say nothing about your bugbear of the world," said she. "I begin to fear that you will soon be my only daughter, and I am growing old. Will you not try to comfort your mother, child?"

Betty was at her mother's feet in a moment. And I, thinking it best, stole out and left them together.

I do wonder, seeing how easily Betty is touched by petting and indulgence, that my aunt should not try it oftener. If I read Betty aright, she is one to be led rather than driven.

_September 20._

The doctor says Margaret must have change of air. And the duke, my Lord Chesterton's uncle, has offered for her benefit a small house he hath in the neighborhood of Richmond, and we shall remove thither next week, giving up this house, as my uncle intends going down to Devon as soon as Meg's health renders it possible. I am pleased with the prospect, for I have never lived in the real country. The only thing Meg regrets is losing the ministrations of Mr. Newington, our new rector, who has been such a comfort to her. But he says he will come to visit her, and tells her that she will like the rector there, who is a friend of his. The house whither we are going is all in order, so we shall have little trouble.

My uncle hath had an attack of dizziness, the blood rushing to his head so as to make him all but senseless for a few minutes. He makes light of it, but I see he drinks no more strong ale or Burgundy wines, but contents himself with small beer, claret, and the like. I do hope nothing will happen to him.

_October 1, Cross Park._

We came down to this lovely place almost a week ago. Meg bore the journey very well, and even enjoyed it, especially after we got fairly out of the city, and she seems better since we came. She has even walked a little on the terrace, from whence is a most lovely prospect, and she has eaten with a little more appetite. My aunt is once more full of hope, and talks about setting the wedding-day soon, but I don't think Sharpless has any hope.

Mr. Morley has gone down to the west about some business for the king, who, it seems, shows him great favor. He came to see us before he left, and told my uncle in parting that he hoped to see him soon again on most important business. He looked at me as he spoke, and smiled meaningly. I do wonder whether there is any thing in what Bab said about Ursula's refusing him. He ever said to me that he did not like her at all, though as his cousin he must needs pay her some attention.

Heigho! It is very delightful to feel that one is loved, and to love in return; yet methinks love doth bring much disquiet in its train. My aunt says I am growing thin, and will have me take milk and cream; and I know my spirits are more variable than ever they were before. But I try to put my own concerns aside, that I may be a comfort to Betty, who does not in the least believe in her sister's amendment; nor, I must say, do I. I remember how my poor friend Emma looked, and she revived in the same way just before the last.

This is a most lovely place. The house is old, with many passages and odd corners, and with much oak wainscot, which makes it rather dark. But there are plenty of windows, and, as the exposure is to the west and south, we have abundance of sun. The park is small, and so are the gardens, but both are very pretty. Especially pleasing to Meg is the view of the parish church, which is very small and old, and overgrown with splendid ivy. It stands in the midst of the churchyard, wherein is a broken stone cross, said to be of great antiquity. The rector is an old and white-haired man, of great dignity of manners, and a sweet, but somewhat sorrowful, face. He hath already visited Meg, who likes him greatly.

Lord Chesterton has taken a lodging near by, and comes to see his lady every day. I never saw a man so changed. He, who used to say life was not worth having away from the court and the theatres, is now content to spend day after day in this quiet place, sitting by Meg's arm-chair, or giving her his arm along the terrace in the short walk she takes every pleasant day. He even reads the Scriptures to her, as she sits in the sunny window of the hall. His very face seems changed. He and Meg have many long talks together, on which no one intrudes. I do think Meg is learning to love him, and I cannot wonder.

My aunt will have Betty and myself go for a walk every day; and we have explored all the nooks and corners of the park, which, though not large, is varied, with little hills and dells. In one of these latter is a beautiful great spring, over which, in olden times, someone has built a little shrine, with a seat, and an inscription of which I can make out only one word, "Pray,"—I suppose an invitation to pray for somebody's soul. The shrine is all in ruins, but the spring gushes forth clear and sparkling as ever. The old housekeeper says it is accounted good for a waste, and Meg has taken a fancy that it tastes better than any other: so I often go early in the morning to bring her a jugful that she may drink it the first thing.

This same housekeeper— Mrs. Mary Miles—is a dear old soul. Instead of being vexed at the increase of her trouble from our coming, she is greatly pleased,—makes all sorts of dainty dishes with her own hands to tempt Meg's appetite, and is always filling Betty's pocket and mine with sugarplums and comfits, which she has great skill and equal pleasure in preparing. It seems the good rector is her cousin.

_October 15._

Our dear, precious Meg is dead and buried. She died just one week ago, and was buried yesterday in the churchyard here, just under the walls of the little gray church. It was at her own request that she was laid there, instead of being taken down to the family burying-place in Devon. She had been quite bright for two or three days, even coming once to the dinner-table. That afternoon she sent for Lord Chesterton, and had a long private talk with him, and afterward with her mother.

I came into the room unwittingly to bring Margaret some late violets I had found in the garden, and as I did so I heard my aunt say, in a somewhat forced tone of cheerfulness, "Dear daughter, you are fanciful. The doctor says you are better. We hope you may be able to be married before long."

"But something 'here' tells me a different story," said Meg, laying her hand on her heart. "Dear mother, will you not promise that it shall be as I desire? That can do no harm."

"Oh, yes, I promise!" said my aunt. "But I shall see you go thither to be married first."

I could not but think of the words, "None so blind as those that won't see." But my poor aunt was soon undeceived. Betty was worn out, and lay down, but I did not: I felt so sure that something would happen before morning. It was a mild, bright, moonlight night, with a soft, intermittent breeze sighing among the trees. The sound did remind me of soft, downy wings hovering near. And, as the cloud-shadows passed over the grassy slope, I almost fancied them the shadows of those same wings. It was just at the turn of the night when I heard Sharpless come quickly out of Margaret's room and knock at my aunt's door. Betty heard it, too, and was up in an instant.

When we went in, we found Meg sitting up in bed, her head supported on her father's breast. Her eyes were fixed with a strange, mysterious brightness, as on some wonderful and glorious sight. While on her face lay—ah, how well I knew it!—that awful gray shadow that never falls but once,—the shadow cast by the wing of death. She never looked at us as we came in, or showed any consciousness of our presence, till her mother, taking her cold hand, said tenderly,—"Dear love, what do you gaze at?"

"Angels," whispered Margaret, "bright angels."

"Don't disturb her," said my uncle hoarsely. "Let her be."

We stood round in silence, till the old white-haired vicar, whom Mrs. Miles had sent for, kneeled down, and said the commendatory prayer. Then all at once Meg reached out her hands with a bright, happy smile, as of a tender little babe that sees its mother coming.

"I am ready,—take me!" she said, and in a moment she was gone.

My poor aunt fainted, and revived only to fall into fits of the most violent weeping. I do think she was almost as much shocked as if Meg had been taken in perfect health. She had so persuaded herself that her daughter must get well because she willed it so. Betty was like one turned to stone. I could hardly get her out of the room; and she was so strange that I almost feared for her reason. At last, however, I won her to tears, and she wept herself to sleep.

I could not sleep; and as it grew light a little I went down to walk on the terrace, that the cool air might refresh my hot forehead. I had been there but a few minutes, when Lord Chesterton came up the avenue, riding at full speed, his horse all in a foam, and his groom hardly able to keep up with him. He flung himself from his horse,—which, poor beast, was only too willing to stand,—and caught me by the hand.

"Am I too late, after all?" he asked.

And, reading the truth in my face, he strode hastily away to the other end of the terrace, where he threw himself on a seat, and wept like a little child.

I took it upon me to bid the groom take his horses to the stables. Then I stood a moment or two uncertain what to do, not liking to intrude on the poor gentleman's grief, nor yet to leave him alone.

At last he seemed to calm himself in some measure, and rose from the seat where he had thrown himself, and I went to meet him.

"Tell me how was it," he said. "Why did no one send for me?"

I told him there was no time,—that my aunt had apprehended no immediate danger, nor even the doctor.

"Ay, none so blind as those that won't see," said he, using the very words I had applied to my aunt in my own mind. "Did you think she was going to get well?"

I told him no; that I had had little hope from the beginning, and I knew Meg had thought for a long time that she should die young.

"She was an angel, a white dove," said my lord; "and God hath taken her home lest she should smirch her fair plumage by contact with such a carrion kite as I have been all my life. But I am a changed man, Dorothy," he added, pressing my hand with a force that almost made me scream.

"My dearest Margaret hath showed me the way, and gone before me; and, by God's grace, the poor remainder of my days shall be passed as she would have it. Oh, my beauty, my pearl!" And with that he fell to weeping again, and I could but weep with him.

At last I persuaded him to come into the house and take some refreshment, and then to lie down on the settle and rest. Surely, if darling Meg's short life had been the means of redeeming this one soul, she hath not lived in vain. I am sure that is more than I have ever done. But I am going to try to be a better girl.

Meg was buried yesterday. She had especially desired that there should be no pomp or parade about the funeral, but that the expense should be bestowed upon the poor of the parish,—specially that each old woman of the almshouses by the church-gate should have a warm gray gown, and each of the villager's children a new frock of dark blue. The little things lined the path from the churchyard gate to the grave; and after the coffin was lowered, they threw upon it flowers and sprigs of yew, till it was quite hidden with them. The day was a lovely one, the sun setting in great pomp of crimson and gold; and a dear little robin, perched on one of the church-windows, sang all through the service. Betty fainted when the earth first fell on the coffin, and hath been but poorly ever since, though she makes brave efforts to keep up, and devotes herself to waiting on her mother.

I can't help wondering whether my aunt will go back to the same course of life again, as soon as her mourning is ended. I hope not, for Betty's sake. I am sure of one thing: my aunt never could drive Bess into marrying any one she did not like. She would run away, or do something desperate. She is made of very different stuff from Margaret.

_October 18._

My uncle is in some trouble. I don't know what, but it is something connected with money. From what little I hear, I fancy he hath been speculating, as so many do nowadays, and hath been unlucky. He is dejected in spirits and does not look well.

My Lord Chesterton hath taken leave of us, going home to the north to visit his mother, who it seems lives all alone in the old family mansion. The poor little cousin is dead, so he is really the next heir to the dukedom. I hope I am not uncharitable, but I do think it no small addition to my aunt's grief, to think that she cannot now be mother-in-law to a duke. She is fretful and low, and it is no easy matter to please her. I think she misses the diversion of her town-life,—the visiting and play-going and parks. I miss them too, I must say, for I had grown fond of them, especially of the theatre, but then, I like being in the country, and running about out of doors, which my aunt does not.

I heard her tell Mrs. Petty, who came to give us a visit of condolence, that she should be inconsolable but for the thought that she had done every thing for the welfare of her dear daughter. And yet I know that the doctor said that Margaret's illness and death were in a great measure owing to her tight dressing. He said her ribs had actually grown into her liver. He said, too, that a great many growing girls are killed in that way, and added, using some strong language, that he would like to burn every pair of steel stays in the land. And yet my aunt is just as particular as ever about our lacing ourselves. Now, I should be but a poor creature without my stays, having always worn them, but I will not have them very tight. Luckily, I am naturally a firm, tight figure, so my aunt does not find me out.

_October 20._

My uncle tells us we are to get ready to go down to Devon in two weeks. Till then, by the duke's kindness, we remain here. To-day came from London beautiful presents from Lord Chesterton for Betty and myself; namely, two miniature portraits of dear Meg, done from the one he had made for himself before we left town. They are incased in gold, and set with small brilliants, and suspended each on a pretty gold chain. He hath sent Mrs. Sharpless a noble Bible and Prayer-Book in large print, and a gift of money for each of the other servants. The pictures are very fine likenesses. My aunt was much pleased, and lauds him to the skies, and then weeps again that her dearest Meg should have been taken away just when she had such a prospect of rank and happiness. But I can't think Meg will care a great deal about missing an earthly coronet where she is now.

Somehow my aunt seems to me to live so on the outside of things. But I need not say any thing. I have tried very hard to be good since Meg died. I have read the Bible, and said my prayers, and all that, but all seems dead and lifeless. Half the time, when I am saying the words with my lips, my mind is occupied with some play I have seen, or I am going over and over again every talk I ever had with Mr. Morley. I do wonder when he is coming back. He said, at parting, that he should not be gone many days.

This morning Mrs. Miles asked me if I would take my walk down to the vicarage, and carry to the rector some confection of quince seeds which she has been making for his throat; and I was glad of an errand to go thither for I have learned to love the old gentleman. He lives in great simplicity, with an old couple for servants, who, I fancy, carry things pretty much their own way. We fell into talk about my former way of life, and I mentioned, I know not how, the name of Mr. Baxter.

"Ah, my good old friend! Did you know him?" he asked.

And on my saying that I did, and had often met him,—

"We were college mates and the best of friends once," said he, sighing, "but our paths led different ways. We studied divinity together, but he was the more confirmed in his notions, while I found myself obliged to change mine. The worst is that my old Presbyterian friends will not believe that I joined the Church of England from pure conviction, but will persist in thinking that I had an eye to worldly advantage. Though, would they but visit me, they would see for themselves that the proverbial church mouse is no poorer than I am."

"I would not think Mr. Baxter could be so prejudiced," said I. "He seemed such a good man, and he was always so kind to me."

"He is a good man, and could not be otherwise than kind to one in your hard position. But he is a man of strong feelings and deep convictions, and he hath suffered much in what he believes the cause of truth. And besides," he added, smiling, "I dare say he thinks of his old chum as a purse-proud priest rolling in riches. But I believe that some day we shall meet when all these clouds will have passed away, and all true lovers of their Lord will see eye to eye, and know as they are known."

He then began to tell me of a poor young widow whose two little children were but scantily off for clothes, and asked me to interest my aunt for them. I promised I would try to do so, and said if aunt were willing, and I could buy some suitable woollen yarn, I would knit some warm hosen. Whereupon he told me of another poor woman, a spinster, who lives at the other end of the village, and supports herself by her wheel and her needle, and said he thought she would be glad to sell me some wool. He seems to know the circumstances and wants of every poor person in the parish. I do think the duke might augment his living, and make the vicarage at least water-tight. I think a few hundred pounds might as well be laid out in that way as in paying for copies of Mr. Lely's pictures of court beauties. I know that Lord Chesterton gave Mr. Miles a present, and money for new altar-cloths and a new chalice, in memory of his mistress.

_October 22._

My aunt consenting, Betty and I got the direction from Mr. Miles, and walked to see the woman who had the yarn to sell, Mercy Lane by name. We found her living in the tiniest little cottage, standing alone by itself, all neat and in good repair, and surrounded by a garden, wherein grew pot-herbs and vegetables, gooseberry and currant bushes, and two or three large apple and pear trees, and also a fine nut-tree. The good woman was within, sitting at her wheel, in blue homespun gown and apron, and a snow-white kerchief and cap. She has been handsome in her day, and is still a comely woman. Her kitchen was as clean and neat as a new trencher, as Mrs. Williams used to say; and a small wood fire made it look still more cheery. On a form near this fire sat three or four little children conning their horn-books, who jumped up and let off quite a little battery of bobs and courtesies at us. I never saw a prettier sight.

The good woman received us with all kindness, setting stools for us, and sending one child for a jug of fair water from the spring, and another on some other whispered errand. We told her what had brought us to see her, on which she produced quite a store of very nice yarn. I bought enough for two pairs of little hose, telling her what it was for. She seemed much pleased.

"I am very glad," said she. "Martha Giggs is a worthy woman, and does all she can to help herself, but her health is not good. This is one of the children," she added, calling to her side one of her pupils, a little curly, flaxen-headed mite, whether boy or girl I could not tell, till the creature, with much blushing and poking of its chin into its neck, said its name was "Merthy."

"She is my god-daughter," explained our hostess.

"And you keep a little school," said Betty.

"But a very small one, madam. These are all young children, as you see, and I can do little but keep them out of mischief. In winter I have a class of larger girls. I have but little learning myself, but I make shift to teach them to read their Bibles, to sew and to spin, and to say their Belief and Commandments. I could have many more if I had room for them."

"Is there no village school?" I asked.

"No, madam. Mr. Miles has tried to prevail with the duke to build one, but without success hitherto."

Again I thought of that picture-gallery. Pictures are all very well, no doubt, but surely these little living images of God are worth as much as they, and likely to outlast them by a good many years.

"And what do your pupils pay you, if I may ask?" inquired Betty, more interested than I have seen her about any thing since Meg died.

"Surely, madam," answered Mercy. "The little ones—those who are able—pay a halfpenny a week, the elder girls a penny. Then I now and then get presents at holiday time. Last Easter, one farmer's wife sent me a fine setting of auk eggs to put under my hen, and they have all done well. The duke's steward allows me the privilege of gathering dry sticks and pine-cones in the park, and the children like nothing better than to help me about it. Then I have a good market for my yarn, and my apples and nuts bring me something in fruitful years."

"And what rent do you pay?" asked Betty. I wondered at the question, for she does not use to be so inquisitive. In that she differs from me, who am a bit of a gossip.

"No rent, madam," answered Mercy, with a little gentle pride. "The place, such as it is, is mine, as it was my father's before me."

"I wonder you never married," said I. But repented of my thoughtless words when I saw how her face flushed and her lip trembled. "I crave pardon," I added: "I was very rude."

"There is no need, madam," said Mercy with a smile. "I was betrothed once, but my sweetheart was carried away to serve in the king's army, and I never saw or heard of him again."

"How very sad!" we both said. And Betty added, "Worse than if you had known him to be killed."

"Yes, the suspense was dreadful, but it is over now," said she calmly. "I know if he had been alive, he would have come back to me somehow; and I have the assurance in my heart that he is at rest, for he was ever a godly man."

"I think you are a happy woman, Mercy," said Betty abruptly.

"And you think truly, my dear young lady," answered Mercy with her sweet smile. "I am a happy woman. I have a small provision laid by for my old age, my health is good, and I have the comfort of knowing that I am useful to my little ones and my neighbors. If I had a wish—"

"Well, if you had," said Betty, as she paused.

"It would be to see a good school set up in this village, to keep the lads and maids from running wild as they do. But I hope that may come in time."

We rose to take our leave, but Mercy would have us sit while she feasted us on pears, and gathered for us a nosegay of late flowers from her garden. Mrs. Miles had filled our pockets with almond comfits after her usual fashion, and we treated the children to them. I suppose they never saw any before, but they soon found out the use of them.

"That is a happy woman, Dolly," said Betty, as we were walking homeward.

"She is a contented woman, at any rate," I replied, "and a useful one, to boot."

"She is a happy woman," persisted Betty. "I would I were as happy. She makes me think of Lady Jemima Stanton, with her family of young orphan ladies about her. I always thought I would like to live in that way."

"You would not like to be as poor as Mercy, to wear a homespun blue gown, and live upon a shilling a week?"

"Mercy is rich on a shilling a week. Did you not hear her say she had laid by something? As to the blue homespun, I would as soon wear that as any thing. I don't care about dress."

"But you would not like to spin for a living, and live on brown bread and stirabout, with a bit of meat on Sundays and festivals."

"I would not care," persisted Betty. "I don't think these outside things have much of any thing to do with happiness or unhappiness."

But I think I should care. I do like pretty things and nice things and to go to the play now and then. And then that sad tale about her lover: I am sure I never could be happy again if such a thing were to happen to Mr. Morley. I wish he would come back.

_October 25._

I do think I am the happiest girl in all the world. Mr. Morley has asked me in marriage of my uncle, and he hath consented, provided that inquiries respecting Mr. Morley's character and prospects should turn out satisfactory. I am not afraid of that. My uncle cannot expect a rich bridegroom for me, seeing I have nothing of mine own; and every one says Mr. Morley is high in favor with the king.

My aunt would have kept the matter from me till all was settled, I believe, but my uncle blurted all out, as his way is. I am glad of it. I would not lose one minute of my new-found joy. I can hardly believe in it even yet. My uncle goes to London to-morrow, and I suppose will make all needful inquiries.

I can't help wishing Mr. Morley were not an unbeliever, but perhaps I may be able to bring him round as Meg did Lord Chesterton.

My aunt is much pleased at my prospects. She has always liked Mr. Morley. Only she wishes my uncle could give me a suitable dowry. He would do so, only that, as I learn for the first time, he hath had great losses of late, so that he is somewhat cramped for ready money. As it is, however, aunt says I shall have a wedding outfit suitable to my quality, and it shall go hard but she will raise a small sum for my private purse. Betty says little, only that she shall be sorry to part with me. She always saw with Meg's eyes; and for some reason I never could understand, Meg always disliked Mr. Morley.

I wonder where we shall live. In town, I suppose, and at the court end, as Mr. Morley has a place in the household. I hope we shall have a pleasant lodging. I shall like the ordering of my own little family, only I wish I knew more about it. But I know I can learn, and I shall not think any thing hard that I do for my husband. Thomas à Kempis says a lover ought willingly to undertake any thing hard or distasteful for his beloved. I am sure I would do that for Mr. Morley, and I believe he would do as much for me.

_October 22._

My aunt and uncle have been gone two days, but are expected back to-night. I have had a talk with Mr. Morley which troubles me, though I dare say without reason. I ought to be ashamed to entertain for a moment a thought so derogatory to him. I dare say he was only vexed because Ursula deceived him.

The way was this. Betty was not well this morning, and kept her bed, for a wonder. She was thirsty and feverish, and at last said she wished she had a glass of fair water from Meg's fountain.

"I will bring you some," said I. "It will take me but a few minutes to go and come, and my aunt will not be vexed, seeing what my errand is." For my aunt had bidden us remain within doors while she was away.

I saw that Betty was pleased, though she made some objection, and said I could send one of the maids. However, I could find no one at the minute; so I even threw on my long cloth cloak, pulled the hood over my head, and set out myself. The spring is in rather a lonely place,—a little dell, green and mossy, and surrounded on all sides by high wooded banks. It is not greatly frequented, because of some story of an apparition,—some forlorn lady who killed herself for love. I am not a bit afraid of the ghost, but, as I dipped my jug into the basin, I heard a man's step behind me, and turned in a hurry, to see Mr. Morley. He greeted me in his usual kind fashion, but seemed perturbed and distraught. He asked for my uncle; and I said he had not yet returned from town, but we expected him that night.

"No matter," he replied abruptly. And then, after a little pause, "Dolly, do you know whether your fortune hath been involved in your uncle's losses? Was it in his hands?"

"I know it was not, for the best of reasons," said I. "My fortune, such as it is, is safe in my own hands."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"'"My face is my fortune, sir," she said.'"

I answered him, singing the line of the old song, and making him a saucy little courtesy, for I felt in good spirits. "I would it were finer for your sake."

He stared at me like one amazed.

"Do you mean to say you have no fortune?" he asked.

"Not a shilling," I answered. And then bethinking myself, I added, "I suppose I should have three hundred pounds if I could get it, but there is not the least likelihood of that."

"But Ursula Robinson told me you had had a fortune come to you," he stammered, "and that was the reason your uncle and aunt had taken you up, though they took no notice of you while you were poor."

"I don't know why she should have said or thought so," I answered coolly, for I was growing vexed in my turn. "My aunt adopted me out of pure kindness and love for her sister's child. She never knew of my existence till she heard of me through Lady Clarenham. I am sorry if you have been deceived, but it has been none of my doing." And with that I took up my jug, and turned to go.

"But are you sure?" he asked again, walking along with me. "Perhaps your aunt has thought best to keep the matter from you."

"I am quite sure," I answered. "My aunt said but yesterday that my uncle had hoped to give at least a thousand pounds with me, but that owing to his late losses it would not be possible for him to do so. Did he not tell you so?"

"Yes, but I thought—However, it does not matter. I have been grossly deceived, and that is the end on't."

"You cannot say that I deceived you, since you never asked me a question on the subject," said I. "If you doubt my word, you had better ask my uncle."

"Don't go, don't leave me in anger, Dolly," said he as I turned away. "I am not angry with you, and yet—"

"I must not stay. My aunt would be very angry if she knew I met you," I answered. And breaking away from him, I hurried into the house.

When I came into Betty's room, she asked me if I had seen the ghost of the blind nun, that I was so pale. I told her no, but that I had seen a strange man who frightened me, and so I had hurried home.

"You should not have gone out, Mrs. Dorothy," said Sharpless. "Your aunt will be displeased, if she hears it."

"It was all my fault,—asking for the water," said Bess.

"There is no great harm done," I answered, making light of the matter. "My aunt will not scold me when she knows why I went. I dare say the poor man meant no harm."

"Very likely he only meant to beg."

"I dare say, but I must go and change my shoes, Betty," said I, glad to seize the first excuse to get away. "The grass in that dell is always wet, I think."

I escaped to my own room, and sat down to think, but the more I turn the matter over in my mind, the less I am able to come to any conclusion.

_October 23._

Mr. Morley has not been here. It is very strange. My uncle had a letter to-night, over which I heard him storming and fuming at a great rate in my aunt's room, calling someone a scoundrel and other hard names, with many oaths and expletives. My aunt seemed moved too, by the tone of her voice.

I was waiting to see her, to tell her what I did yesterday. I find the more perfectly frank and open I am with her, the better we agree. I was standing at the farther window of the gallery, to which I had moved not to overhear the talk in my aunt's room. When she came out, her color was raised, and there were traces of tears about her eyes, which I was surprised to see, for she does not usually mind my uncle's tantrums.

"What are you doing here, Dorothy?" she asked.

I told her I was waiting to speak with her. She asked what was the matter; and I told her, only I did not repeat what Mr. Morley had said.

"And you are sure you did not go on purpose to meet him?" she asked somewhat sharply. And then, relenting, "But no, that is not like my frank, simple-hearted Dolly. Only you know, my love, it is much better for young ladies to do exactly as they are bid. There, I am not angry, but I would rather you did not go out to-day."

She looked at my work, and praised its neatness, asked how my knitting progressed, and dismissed me with a kiss and her blessing. I can't understand her manner, nor my uncle's way of looking at me, but I am glad they are not angry with me. They have certainly been very good. I suppose Ursula Jackson could not understand such disinterested kindness, and so coined this tale to account for it. No wonder Mr. Morley was angry with her. I hope he will have had enough of her, that is all.

_October 24._

It is all over. Life is done for me, and I only wish it were done in good earnest. But people can't die when they like, unless they kill themselves, and I have too much conscience, or too little courage, for that. I shall never believe in any one again.

This morning I was about to sit down to my music, which I have taken up again at my aunt's request, when Mary Mathews came to say that my aunt required my presence in her room. (Mary was out of a place when my mistress went to the Bath, and my aunt took her on my recommendation, and means to carry her down to Devon with us.) I wondered what could be the matter, for my aunt never interrupts our study hours without grave cause, and on my way down-stairs and through the gallery I tried to think whether I had done any thing to merit her displeasure, but I could remember nothing save my walk, which she knew of already.

I found my uncle and aunt sitting side by side in my aunt's dressing-room. My uncle had a letter in his hand. They both kissed and blessed me; my uncle adding, as it were to himself, "Poor, pretty wretch, I had as soon be hanged as tell her! The—villain, would I but had his—neck under my boot-heel!"

"Do not excite yourself, Sir Robert," said my aunt gently. "Our dear Dorothy hath too much proper pride and self-respect not to treat the matter as it deserves."

"Oh, yes: pride and self-respect are all very well! There, sit down, child."

He pushed a chair toward me; and I took it, wondering what would be coming next. But I never guessed, never had a thought of the impending blow.

"Well, child, you must needs know,—but how to tell you—There, take the letter and read it. That I should ever have taken such a creeping adder into my family! There, read it, poor wench!"

"And then treat the writer with the contempt and scorn he deserves," added my aunt. "There are others who will appreciate our clove-gilliflower, if he does not."

(My uncle sometimes calls me by that name, because I am so dark.)

I read the letter over, but somehow I did not at first take a sense of it. The writer said that, finding he had been deceived in respect to the private fortune of Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, and not being in a condition to marry a portionless wife, however worthy in other respects, he must decline the honor of the young lady's alliance. The letter concluded with some commonplace expressions of respect, and was signed Philip Morley.

"Well," burst forth my uncle, as I looked up from the letter; "is not this a fine, craven cock we have chosen for a bridegroom for our Dorothy? He has done well to run for it. I would have slit his nose for him, and I will, too, if he comes within my reach."

"No, no!" said my aunt. "Much better treat him with the contempt he deserves.—Think you not so, my love?"

"I don't understand," said I.

"She has not taken in the matter," said my aunt, "and no wonder. Read the letter again, my love."

I did so, and saw it all.

"How did Morley get this idea of your having a fortune?" asked my uncle.

"Don't tease her with questions now, my dear," said my aunt kindly. "She is in no state to answer you."

"Oh, yes!" said I. I was in a strange state of mind. I comprehended the whole matter, but it seemed to me as if it related to somebody else than myself,—somebody I was very sorry for, but whom I could talk of quite quietly. "I know because he told me. He said Mrs. Ursula Jackson, his cousin, told him; and I dare say she did."

"But how should she get the notion?"

I told him what I thought, adding that Ursula was apt to take up fancies about people, and then repeat them for facts.

"She must be a nice woman," observed my uncle. "Well, my maid, you take the loss of your bridegroom more quietly than I expected. I thought you were in love with his very shadow."

"My Dorothy has too much proper spirit, and has been too well brought up, to fix her affections on any man without the leave of her guardians," said my aunt. "'Tis a great mortification, no doubt, but far better than if she had married so unworthy a person. I am glad it has all happened here instead of in town. Mr. Morley will hold his tongue for his own sake, and no one outside the family need know any thing of the matter."

"The miserable, cowardly hound has sneaked off to Scotland on some errand for his Majesty," said my uncle.

"So much the better," returned my aunt. "We shall go down to Devon next week; and Dolly will have enough to divert her, and make her forget this unworthy man.—There, go, my love, to your own room, if you like, and compose your spirits."

"And we will find you a better bridegroom," said my uncle; "some gallant, honest Devon man, worth a hundred of these court fops and coxcombs. There, Heaven bless thee, dear wench! You have been a dutiful child to us, and a good sister to her that's gone; and you shall never want a home while I have a shilling, or a roof over my head."

My aunt kissed me also, and called me a good girl, and said kindly that she was most grateful to Lady Clarenham for bringing her to the acquaintance of so good a niece. I left the room, still with that strange feeling of pitying myself as if I were somebody else. I even sat down to the harpsichord again, and played through the lesson of scales I had begun, as steadily as if nothing had happened, but, as I stooped to take up another piece of music, it proved to be a song which Mr. Morley and I had often sung together. Then it all came to me. I threw it down as if it had burned me, and escaped to my room.

My aunt sent to know if I would come to dinner, or if she should send me something. I told Mary to thank her, but said I would come down.

"Are you not well, Mrs. Dolly?" said Mary.

"I have a headache," I answered, with perfect truth, "but I shall feel better to go about a little."

Mary came to the table, and began to dust the books with her apron. When she left the room, I saw that she had laid my Prayer-Book open at the Twenty-seventh Psalm. The dear, good soul thought to comfort me, no doubt. I remember how she used to betake herself to her Prayer-Book and Bible to calm her spirits after my mistress had been abusing her in one of her horrid fits of ill-temper. She must have known or guessed that I was in some trouble.

But I can't comfort myself in that way. Perhaps I might, if things were different. If Mr. Morley had been killed in the rebellion, for instance, I don't think I should have minded nearly as much. Then I could have had the comfort of remembrance; but now—Oh, if I could only forget!

_October 28._

My aunt praises me much for the way in which, as she says, I bear my trouble. She says she sees plainly that I do not mean to let this man's shadow darken my life. But it is not "his" shadow at all. It is the shadow of a man who never had an existence, save in mine own imagination. It is not that he is dead, but that he never lived. My aunt says the thought of his unworthiness ought to comfort me, but there is just the sting: it is just his vileness and unworthiness that I mourn over. It seems to me now, that I could willingly have parted with him, if I could have kept on believing in him.

My aunt called Betty and myself into her room this morning, in order, as she said, to explain to us certain family matters. I don't even now understand just how it is, only that my uncle, induced by the representations of some business-man in whom he had confidence, did, without consulting his wife, and against the advice of his old lawyer and agent in Exeter, put all his spare cash into this man's hands to embark in some trading venture which was to bring in a golden harvest of guineas. But the bubble hath burst, and the blower thereof hath run away to America, where I hope the Indian savages may take and scalp him; and my uncle, from being rich, has become comparatively poor. True, he has his landed estate, and happily he has no debts of any amount. And my aunt thinks that by letting his fine mansion, which it seems he can do to good advantage, and retiring to a smaller house which belongs to my aunt, he may, in the course of a few years, be relieved from all his embarrassments.

I was much pleased to notice that my aunt did not, in all she said, cast one word of blame or reflection upon her husband, though he acted without her knowledge and against her known wishes, she being ever against speculation, and although—so Sharpless tells me—a good deal of the lost money was of her bringing. Methinks such forbearance shows real greatness of soul. I cannot endure to hear married people complaining of each other, as Ursula Jackson does of her husband to every one she can get to hear her.

As Betty said nothing, and my aunt seemed to expect some one to speak, I asked where this house lay.

"It is not very far from Exeter. The name of the estate is Lady Hill," answered my aunt.

"What an odd name!" I remarked.

"There was once a small convent on the spot, whereof the ruins still remain," answered my aunt. "The house is not large, but convenient; and there is land enough to serve your uncle for an occupation. We shall not need nearly as many servants as at Fullham, which will be one advantage, and we must settle whom to keep. My own woman, Mrs. Brown, leaves this next month to be married, so she tells me."

"Then, madam, why should you not take Sharpless to be your own woman?" asked Betty. "Dolly and I can wait on and dress each other, can't we, Dolly?"

"Yes, indeed, I should think so, seeing I never had a waiting-woman in my life till I came here to live," I answered. "And, aunt, I think you would find Mary Mathews a very careful and efficient housemaid; and Betty and I will be your gentlewomen, so you will have three instead of one."

"Oh, yes, that will do nicely!" said Betty, with more interest than I have seen her show since Meg's death. "And Dolly will play and sing to my father of an evening, and I will play chess with you, dear mother, and read to you in your favorite chronicles. And we will be happy in ourselves, and let the world give us the go by, if it likes."

My aunt's eyes overflowed for the first time. "My dear, good girls," said she, giving a hand to each, and drawing us near to her; "how happy it makes me to see you take things in this way!"

"There would be little use in sitting down to lament for spilled milk," said Betty. "No doubt my father acted for the best, however he was mistaken."

"That I am sure he did," said my aunt. "I am sorry for your sakes, more than my own, that I cannot give you the benefit of another London season."

"So am not I," said Betty. "I hate London as much as my father does. I would rather live at that place in the Mendip hills, where the sun does not rise till ten of the clock in midsummer."

"You should not interrupt your mother, my love: that is rude," said my aunt, but without the displeasure she usually shows on these occasions. "I was going to say that I hoped we should not be quite out of the world, since we are so near Exeter, where there is very good society among the church dignitaries. I hope to see you both well established in the world yet, for all that has come and gone. There, go now, my dears, and send Sharpless to me; she has been a most faithful servant, and is worthy of all confidence."

"Oh, yes, the world, the world, always the world!" said Betty discontentedly. "I wish one could get away from the world."

"You would like to go into a nunnery then," said I, as we sat ourselves down to our embroidery.

"I am not sure that I should, by any means," said Betty. "I should want to know more about the matter first. I have a fancy that the little world of a convent may be just as worldly as the great world outside, and perhaps harder to deal with, seeing that one would be shut up to it. If I have to deal with a wolf or a snake, I would rather have him in the field than in my chamber."

"I have noticed one thing in Thomas à Kempis," said I: "he is as full of warning against ambition, pride, envy, and so forth, as if he had been writing for the court instead of a convent." ¹

¹ This is the case with all the conventual books of devotion (and they are many) which I have read. See the life of Saint Theresa, by herself, for a fine example.

"But would you like to go into a convent, Dolly?" asked Betty.

"No," I answered abruptly, "not unless I could leave my memory at the gates. I would rather be like Mrs. Petty, going to the park every afternoon, and the play or a ball every night, and sleeping till noon next day; or even like old Lady Carewe, going to church in the morning, and playing at cards all the rest of the day. One might chance to forget sometimes in that way."

"You would not find any comfort in such a life," said Betty, laying down her work, and looking at me with eyes full of pity and love. "The gayest must have their hours of reflection, even in this world. Sickness and old age and death come to all, and then there is what comes after; there are no plays or balls or cards 'there,' I fancy. And beside, Dolly, dear, it might have been worse: you might have married him, and found him out when it was too late."

"You don't understand, none of you understand," I cried passionately. "I am not thinking about myself, but about 'him'—'him,'—that he should be so unworthy. If he had died like Meg, if he had been lost like Mercy Lane's sweetheart, it would not have been half so bad. But that he should be what he is, and that I can do nothing to help him, nothing!"

"But God can," said Betty softly. "He heard dear Meg's prayers for Lord Chesterton. Why don't you pray for him?"

"I can't," I answered. "It seems as if he had mocked me already. I asked him to give me Mr. Morley, and see how it hath turned out. Bab Andrews prayed for her lover, and he died a shameful death, after all. She asked for his life, but it was not given her."

"'He asked life of thee, and thou gavest it to him,—long life, even for ever and ever,'" said Betty solemnly. "Is not that in the Psalms? When Bab and her lover look back from eternity at their troubles here, I don't believe they will seem so very long or hard."

"Her case was not mine," said I. "There is no use in talking to you. You were never in love."

Betty was silent for a few minutes, and then began to try and divert me by telling me about Devon. I knew she meant kindly, and I tried to listen, and insensibly I did become interested.

Betty is glad we are going to Lady Hill, which she likes better than Fullham, because there is such a lovely park and garden; though Fullham house is quite a palace, by all accounts. I shall be glad of the journey, at all events. We are to stay two or three days in London, where we hope to meet my Lord Chesterton, who has been kept by some matters of business. I am sure I hope we shall not meet Mr. Morley, but my uncle thinks he has gone to Scotland.

_November 5. London._

Guy Fawkes Day, but there were no bonfires, they being forbidden by the king, which makes people look strangely on each other. Already mass is said openly at Whitehall and other places, and the court swarms with priests, especially Jesuits. The king's determination to dispense with the test act, and the dismissal of Lord Halifax from office, cause much murmuring even among the strongest partisans of the king. So says Lord Chesterton, who has given us two or three visits. He still wears the deepest mourning, and lives very retired. Betty and he had a long talk this morning, but I have not heard what it was about.

A good many of my aunt's old friends have visited her; and she has spent one evening at my Lady Carewe's, at a card party, I believe. Betty and I were not asked to go; for which I am not sorry, for I think she is a hateful old woman. She must be seventy years old, at least, and yet she wears rouge and false hair, and is just as eager after every shilling she wins at play; and then she does so delight in scandalous dirty stories. I cannot think how my aunt, who hates scandal, can endure her, but then "she moves in the best society," forsooth, and that is enough.

_November 6._

I saw my dear Mrs. Williams this morning. It seems my mistress—I shall never get over calling her by that name—intends to spend the whole winter at the Bath, and hath sent Mrs. Williams to town on some business and to see to letting the house. I was out shopping with my aunt when I met Mrs. Williams. And aunt, learning who she was, and having heard, as she kindly said, of her goodness to me, gave me leave to give my old friend a visit. I was overjoyed to do so, for Mrs. Williams was my friend when I sorely needed one. If I had but followed her counsel, I should not be the forlorn wretch I am now. But there is no use in looking back, or forward either for that matter.

My aunt gave me a guinea, and bade me buy something for my old friend such as I thought she would like: so I bought her a large print Bible and some chocolate, which she was always fond of. It is a new kind, made up in cakes like gingerbread, very convenient to carry.

My aunt left me at the door of my old dwelling,—I wont say "home," for there never was any thing of home about it,—and told me she would call for me in two or three hours, as she had some visits to return. How strange and yet how familiar it seemed! I was let in by the old woman who takes care of the house, and who said Mrs. Williams would be back presently.

As I stepped into the withdrawing-room to look once more at my Lady Jem's portrait, it seemed every moment as if I should hear my mistress's whistle, in that sharp sudden note which always told me to expect at the least a box on the ear. The picture is as lovely as ever, most beautifully painted. I particularly noticed the diamond ear-rings, which are very large, and so well represented that they seemed actually to emit light. I wonder what has become of them. Round her neck are the very same locket and chain that Sir Charles gave me. I have it safe in my trinket-box, the chain having become somewhat thin by wearing. I told my aunt its history one day when she saw it by chance, and she bade me keep it as Sir Charles had said. I was glad, for I feared she might insist on examining it, but that is not her way. She is as entirely a woman of her word as any one I ever saw, and respects the same in other people.

While I was looking at the picture, Mrs. Williams came in. She was much pleased with my little present, and insisted on preparing some chocolate at once. She had bought a fine cake and a cold fowl, and got ready quite a little feast.

"You are not looking well," said she to me.

"I am well enough," I answered. And then, moved by I know not what, I laid my head down in my old friend's lap, and poured out all my story.

Mrs. Williams's comment was an unexpected one.

"I am glad it is no worse," said she.

"How could it have been worse?" I said pettishly.

"You might have married him," said she; "that would have been bad enough. Besides, I believe that man capable of any wickedness. He hath been one of the prime instruments of Col. Kirke and the chief justice in the horrible cruelties which have been practised on the poor folks of Somersetshire."

"I can't believe it," said I.

"I had it from a sure hand," she returned; "from the mother of one of the sufferers. It is such a tale as I would not pollute your ears withal. I thought of you when I heard it, and prayed that you might be preserved from his clutches."

"Let us talk of something else," said I. "How is my mistress?"

"Much as usual, only that her health is better."

"You must have a hard time with her all alone."

"So hard that I sometimes think I must leave her altogether," replied Mrs. Williams. "I have told her that I must have a rest; and as soon as my business is ended here, I shall go down to Kent, and make a visit to my brother-in-law."

"Kent," said I, "does not Mrs. Pendergast's father live in Kent?"

"Yes, and close by where I am going: so I hope to see them often."

"And where is Mr. Pendergast?"

"In the city, I suppose, but I cannot tell you where, sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another. He is a good man, though not yet fully enlightened as to spiritual things. But, my dear, if you wish to go through the house, we must be moving."

I agreed, and we went all through the house. My mistress had carried away all of my Lady Jem's clothes and other such matters, but I found on a shelf in her closet a pile of old books,—some of devotion, and others of romances and the like,—and, as I knew they were worthless to sell, I carried off two or three for keepsakes. Also I found in my old room my "Pilgrim's Progress," which I had forgotten in my removal. Mrs. Williams bade me show it to my aunt, and I promised to do so. I hope she will not disapprove it, for it is a book I love.

"And what do you know about Ursula Jackson?" I asked.

Mrs. Williams shook her head.

"Nothing pleasant. She and her husband do not at all agree. She poured out all her woes to me, as I fancy she does to every one who will listen to her. She says Mr. Jackson is desperately jealous, and will let her speak to no one but himself. Mr. Robertson himself told me that Mr. Jackson was very angry at a certain person's attentions to his wife, and forbade him the house."

"Why do you suppose Ursula told—that story about my having a great fortune?"

"I suppose she made it partly out of something my mistress said. Ursula was wondering at your aunt's adopting you when she had daughters of her own to marry, and my mistress answered her, 'You may be sure Lady Fullham knows what she is about. Dolly may come into a fortune some day.' I believe she only meant to hint that she herself might leave you something, but, seeing how eagerly Ursula took it up, she went on adding more hints just to tease her."

"Ursula was always dreadfully afraid my mistress would leave me something, though I don't think there is any danger," said I.

"Nor I," answered Mrs. Williams. "I doubt her ever bringing herself to make a will at all. She clings closer and closer to this world every day."

"And if she does not, where will her money go?"

"To her brother's descendants, I presume. There is quite a family of them, but my mistress never could abide them, though they are very nice people. Your acquaintance, Mr. Evelyn, brought up one of them,—a young lady who was left an orphan in the plague time,—and she was married from his house. She came to see my mistress once, and I thought her a very nice, pretty young lady. But there is no telling what my mistress may do."

"Marry again, perhaps," I suggested.

"Hardly, I think, though there is no telling. I always say I should be surprised at no one's marriage but my own. Well, here is the coach come for you, my dear. Thank my good Lady Fullham for allowing me this visit. And, my dear child, take one bit of counsel from your old friend. Try to rest all this trouble of yours where it belongs. 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.' 'Wait on the Lord,' and 'commit thy way' to him."

"I can't," said I, crying. "I have tried, and I can't."

"Perhaps you have not tried in the right way. But there, I must not keep you. God bless thee, my lamb! I do miss thee sorely, but thou art in better hands than mine; and I have faith to believe thou wilt be guided home, though not by the path of thine own choosing. He leadeth 'the blind by a way they know not,' but all the same, he leadeth them."

I was in funds, having just been paid my quarter's allowance of spending money: so I gave Mrs. Williams ten shillings, and asked her to lay it out in presents for Mrs. Pendergast's two little children, who were always great pets of mine. Then I bade her good-by, and took leave forever of the house where I first saw Mr. Morley. I wish I had died then and there, before I ever saw him again.

I found Mr. Newington, our rector, in the coach with my aunt, going home to sup at our lodgings. My aunt asked what books I had; and I showed her they were Mr. Taylor's "Golden Grove," and the "Arcadia" by Philip Sidney.

"There is no harm in these," remarked my aunt, "but what is this? 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' by John Bunyan. Is he not that tinker turned preacher that I have heard of? I cannot think such an author suitable for the closet of a young lady.—What say you, Mr. Newington?"

"There is no harm in the piece, but a great deal of good," said Mr. Newington. "I have read the book more than once, and I venture to say Mrs. Dorothy will not be hurt by it."

"But a tinker, Mr. Newington," said my aunt; "a common tinker to aspire to be a preacher!"

"Well, what then, madam? I knew a worse case even than that, where a common carpenter put himself forward to take part in the services of his own parish church."

"And what did they do to him?" asked my aunt, all unsuspicious of the trap into which she was falling.

"Do? Why, they said, '"Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary?" And they were offended at him.'"

My aunt drew herself up. "I think you are almost profane, Mr. Newington. Would you draw a parallel between our Lord and this Anabaptist preacher?"

"Heaven forbid, madam, that I should draw any such parallel between him and the very most exalted of his creatures!" said Mr. Newington solemnly. "All I meant to show was that outward rank and consequence are as nothing in his eyes, who took David from following the sheep to be king over his people, and sent Amos the herdsman to rebuke even kings. I am sorry for what I must think are the good man's errors, but these peculiar notions do not at all appear in his book, which I can confidently recommend for Mrs. Dorothy's perusal."

My aunt could do no less than agree, but she said afterward that she was sorry so good a man should take up such strange notions. If what he said was true, any little mechanic or tradesman's wife might be setting herself up to be the equal of any lady in the land. But it seems to me that the effect of these notions, if carried out, would make the tradesman's wife not care any thing about being equal to anybody. If one really believes one's-self a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, as the Catechism says, one would not care for any earthly distinction. One would not fret very much because the duchess of this or my Lady T'other did not bow to them. But it seems to me as if most of the people I know did not really believe these things at all, not as they believe in the things of this world. I know there is no reality in them to me, at any rate. I wish there were. Perhaps I should find some comfort in them, and get rid of this dull pain at my heart which seems to press my life out.

_Lady Hill, December 1._

We are here and mostly settled. I thought we never should get here alive. What with the state of the roads, and the dread of highwaymen with whom the country is more infested than usual since the late troubles, and the rain and wet, and my uncle's fretting and fuming, the journey was any thing but pleasant for the most part. I am glad they did not bring poor Meg's body down here to be buried. It would have been simply agonizing. We had six horses to the coach nearly all the way, and yet more than once my uncle had to send for oxen to drag the coach out of the mire. I could but admire my aunt's patience and cheerfulness. Not a fretful word escaped her in our very worst predicaments, and she was always ready to see something pleasant or odd to divert our minds. She certainly is an admirable woman in most ways.

Mary Mathews jumped at the chance of going into the country again, and hath greatly commended herself to my aunt and to Mrs. Sharpless by her usefulness and her cheerful spirits. She laughed at all our hardships, and told us such tales of travelling in the north (she comes from somewhere about Durham) as did indeed make our inconveniences seem very small. I am glad I was able to secure the place for her, both for her sake and my aunt's. Mrs. Sharpless takes to her greatly, and shows no jealousy of my aunt's favor to her, as poor Brown used to. I said as much to Betty one day. She laughed.

"There is just the difference between Sharpless and Brown that there is between the cat and the dog," said she. "The dog lives in the opinion of other people, and consequently, he can be made jealous. But did you ever see a cat show any jealousy of the opinion or favor of her mistress?"

"I don't know that I ever did," said I. "The cat thinks too much of herself to care what any one thinks of her. Indeed, I don't think cats acknowledge any ownership in the people they live with. Puss is your friend, but it is on terms of equality."

"That is it exactly," said Betty: "Sharpless thinks too much of herself to be jealous of anybody."

I don't know whether that is the true solution or not, but, at any rate, such a person as Sharpless is much pleasanter to live with than one who is always looking out for affronts and slights. But to what a distance have I wandered!

We staid a night in Exeter, and then came on here, having sent a groom in advance to announce our coming, as my uncle decided to stop here, and go to Fullham afterwards.

In the morning, Betty and I went to service at the cathedral. It is a most huge and venerable pile of Gothic architecture, far more beautiful to my eyes, I must say, than the new St. Paul's will ever be. Aunt says my taste is not correct; and that no doubt, as the Grecian and Roman style of building spreads more and more, many of these great piles will be taken down and rebuilt. But I hope that may not be in my day. Perhaps the fashion may change, and the Gothic come to be admired again.

I must say I was quite overwhelmed with the prospect of the fretted roof, the long aisles, and colored windows; though they say these last are nothing to what they were before the great rebellion. My uncle says, however, that the rebels did not all the mischief they are credited with, in such cases,—that the Cavaliers were often quite as bad.

The service was musical, of course, and beautifully sung, as they pride themselves on the singing, but I must say I am not fond of a musical service. It seems to me that the very beauty and glory of our service is that it is "common" prayer,—common, that is, to the clergy and the people; though I admit that, in practice, it is too often left to the parson and the clerk. But a musical service seems to belong wholly to the clergy and the choir; and the people have only to listen and admire,—or criticise, as the case may be.

I was pleased to see the old men and women from the almshouses in their place, looking so warm and comfortable in their thick gray cloaks and hoods. I wonder, do they like to come, or does the daily attendance become but a wearisome task? There are many charitable foundations in the city,—one especially for ladies in reduced circumstances, where my aunt hath several acquaintances, and where she hath promised to take us to visit some day.

In the afternoon we came out here. Mrs. Sharpless and Mary Mathews had preceded us, and got things into some order. The evening was closing in as we came in sight of the little knoll on which the house is built. And the lighted windows were a cheerful sight, as were the glow and warmth of the great wood fire which Mrs. Sharpless had caused to be built in the hall. We were received with many courtesies and bows by the old housekeeper and her husband, who acts as bailiff or steward, and found a savory, hot supper awaiting us.

"'Why, this is pleasant, this is like home," said my uncle, looking about him. "This is better than London cheer. Eh, Bess?"

"Yes, indeed, sir!" answered Bess heartily.

"And what says my clove-gilliflower?" asked my uncle, turning to me. "Will it take good root, and flourish again in Devon soil, or will it pine for London smoke and fineries?"

I fear the poor, smirched, down-trodden clove-gilliflower will never flourish anywhere again, but I did not say so to my kind uncle. I answered him truthfully that I never wished to see London again.

"Why, that's well!" said my uncle. "I must have you learn to ride and walk, and make a country maid of you. As to Bess, I believe she would like to don the russet-gown, and take up the milking-stool and pail, and tend the cows like any country Cicely,—hey, Bess?"

"That I would, sir," answered Betty. "I always thought I would like to be a dairy-maid."

Whereat my aunt shook her head, but smilingly, and we sat down to supper in great good humor.

For two or three days we were all very busy, under my aunt's direction, in getting the house in order. It had been well cared for, but, like other uninhabited houses, it needed a deal to make it really cheerful and comfortable. However, things are now pretty well settled. My aunt has given Betty and me a very pretty set of rooms on the second floor. Our sitting-room—for aunt says we are not to talk of the schoolroom any more—has a great bow-window, or oriel, which commands a beautiful view of the city of Exeter, rising from the Exe, crowned grandly with the towers of the great cathedral. I love to sit here at evening, and watch the kindling of the lights, like stars. Here we have our harpsichord, on which I practise diligently every morning, our work-tables, and our French and Italian books. My aunt hath set us to embroidering new covers for the chairs in the great drawing-room, which are sadly worn and faded. Betty grumbles privately, and calls it a sad waste of time, but I must confess I like it. It is a real diversion; for one has to give it all one's attention, and thus it leaves no room for sad thoughts, as plain work does.

Our bedrooms open from this sitting-room, and are very comfortable, with moreen hangings,—one of red and the other of green,—and ornamented with some old prints of sacred subjects, which my aunt's first husband picked up abroad. They are brown and faded, with tarnished gilt frames, and my aunt would have consigned them to the lumber-room, but Betty and I begged them, as we did various odds and ends of china and carving. I fancy this gentleman must have been something of a virtuoso, from the heaps of shells, minerals, and other curiosities he has collected.

The garden is large, and very beautiful, to my thinking. A part thereof is laid out in the formal Dutch fashion, with parterres, and yew-trees clipped into the shape of peacocks and dragons and a rampant St. George on horseback; and there are a fountain and a maze and what not, which are the pride of the old gardener's heart. Beyond this extends what is, to me, the beautiful part of the garden. It has run wild, it is true, but there are green, mossy walks, and tall trees, and a great bank of violets, and many curious trees and herbs which my uncle (I suppose he was my uncle as much as Sir Robert is) collected. Also, there is a long row of bee-hives, and a plantation of such sweet herbs and flowers as their cunning little inhabitants love.

My aunt says my uncle Foster was a great chemist and botanist, and used to distil many cordial and other medicines, which he gave away to poor folks. His furnace and retorts still occupy a room in the older part of the house, which room is looked upon with superstitious awe by the servants and the country people, who seem to have rewarded his goodness to them by believing that he was in league with the Devil.

_December 10._

Betty has had a letter from my Lord Chesterton, to say that he has obtained leave from the duke, his uncle, to build a schoolhouse at Cross Hill, with rooms for the master and mistress, and a good endowment for their support. He has made Mercy Lane mistress. And, till the new house shall be done, he has fitted up a good-sized cottage for her use. The school is to be called Mistress Margaret's School, in memory of our dear Meg. I think it is the loveliest monument I ever heard of, much better than a great, unmeaning pile of marble which does no one any good. This monument will keep her memory green, and be a benefit for ages, perhaps. But who would have thought of Lord Chesterton's doing such a thing when I first knew him! My uncle and aunt are greatly pleased, as well they may be.

We are fallen into a very regular course of life. My uncle hunts and shoots and attends to his farming, in which he takes great interest, specially in a new breed of cattle which he has obtained from his brother who lives in North Devon. (We are to visit this same brother before long.) My aunt attends to her housekeeping and her dairy, and overlooks our lessons and our work. I fancy she is rather homesick for London, though she does not say a word, and I dare say would be torn with wild horses before she would own as much. We have had some visits from country neighbors, and from the bishop's family and the other dignified clergy of Exeter, but of course we do not see nearly as much company as in London, especially now when the roads are so bad.

Betty and I go to church every morning when it is not too stormy, and we not seldom form nearly the whole congregation. The rector is a little old man, who always does make me think of a white owl, especially in his surplice, but he reads nicely, and is a good preacher, if he would not have so much to say about the divine right of kings and the duty of passive obedience. He is very kind to the poor people, alike to the Churchmen and the Dissenters, of whom there are a good many in the parish. And I believe they all love and respect him, though they do not show it by coming to church. He is also a great antiquary. And the last time he was here, he explained to Betty and me that the old mass of brick-work in the garden is the remains of some old Roman wall, of which there are many in these parts. I thought the good man would have fainted when my uncle said the old thing was an eye-sore, and ought to be blown up with gunpowder. He was so pathetic that my uncle promised that the ruin should not be touched in his time. I don't think he ever thought of doing it, but he sometimes likes to tease. But I have wandered a long way from our daily doings.

After our return from church I practise my music, and Betty takes her painting, in which she finds great pleasure. She is copying for me a Virgin and Child, which we both greatly admired at the bishop's palace, and which his lordship was kind enough to lend for the purpose. I do not usually care for these representations, but this picture is lovely, especially the little angel heads in the corners, looking down with a tender solicitude at the divine Child, which lies asleep in its mother's arms. Then we read French or Italian till dinner, after which we sit in my aunt's parlor with our work, ride with my uncle when the weather allows, or pay visits.

We have been to Exeter to two card-parties, a kind of entertainment I heartily hate. It is shocking to me to see old women and old men, even clergymen, quarrelling over the cards, so eager after their gains, and so angry at their losses, which they seem always to lay to their partners, and then when the cards are laid aside, and the coffee-cups come round, such tales of scandal, and pulling to pieces of the absent, and hints and innuendoes. However, we are not likely to see much more of them, for my uncle vows we shall go to no more evening parties unless we stay all night, the roads are so dangerous at this season.

Betty and I have taken to visiting a good deal among the poor folks, and to working for them. There is one poor body especially, a widow, with one or two children, whose mother has lately come to live with her, at least for the present. The poor old creature hath been well to do in her day, but her husband was unlucky enough to sell some horses to one of the Duke of Monmouth's officers. He could not well help himself for doing so, since the horses would have been taken at any rate. But for this offence, and this alone, he was hanged up at his own gate, and his wife was compelled to witness his death-struggle: after which she was allowed to buy her life, only to suffer a new bereavement; for her son, attempting to steal his father's body and bury it, was taken and hanged beside it.

"Ay, I saw all this with my own eyes, and the wretch mocked at my tears and cries," said the old woman, with flashing eyes. "I can see him now in his fine clothes, with his white, beringed hands, one of them scarred across the back with a sabre-cut or some such thing, and his lady's favor in his hat."

I turned sick, but something, I know not what, made me question her further.

"What was the favor like?" I asked.

"A pink silk ribbon, worked with silver spangles; I can see it now."

So could I, for it was the very knot of ribbon I had found in Lady Jem's cabinet, and which Mr. Morley had begged from me one of those mornings when I met him in the park. And to think I allowed that very hand—But there, it won't bear thinking of. I would I could never think of him again. I grew so white that the good Priscilla Lee was scared, and made her mother a sign to cease talking.

"Ay, my dear tender lamb, your kind heart cannot abide to hear of such things," said the old woman kindly, as her daughter hastened to bring me a draught of fair water. "May you never have to suffer them! But the time will come that the Lord will avenge his saints. He will not withhold his arm forever. Something tells me that I shall live, old as I am, to see the tyrant cast down, and that no son of his will sit on his throne after him."

"Hush, dame! That is not safe talk," said I, recovering myself by a great effort. "You would not like to bring your daughter into trouble. I shall not repeat your words; but others might, if they heard them."

"You are right, madam, and I am wrong," said the old woman, "but these remembrances are too much for me at times. But I will be careful. Good-day, my dear lamb, and thank you for all your kindness. Take care of your steps, my pretty, for the ways are but slippery."

"You will not mind my mother," said Priscilla, following me to the gate of the little garden. "Indeed, she is a good and a godly woman, and hath been like an own mother to me. You will take no offence at her, my dear young lady?"

"No, indeed," I answered; "who can wonder at her. But I hope she will be more careful."

_December 31._

I think Dame Penberthy's story put the crown to all my miseries; I suppose I had come to the place where I could bear no more. When I came home, my aunt asked if I were ill. I said no, though my head felt strangely bewildered, and I could hardly keep my wits together to answer the commonest question. My aunt sent me to bed at last, but I could not rest. The last I remember is waking from a dreadful dream of somebody choking me with a spangled ribbon, while Mr. Morley stood by laughing. My aunt was bending over me, and saying,—

"What is it, my love? What troubles thee so?"

I tried to answer, I remember, but I suppose I spoke wildly and beside the purpose, for I distinctly recollect my aunt's face of alarm. After that, I knew no more till I awaked one evening, and saw the setting sun streaming in at the window, and heard the chimes of our little church ringing merrily. Sharpless was sitting by me, and rose as I moved.

"Why are the chimes ringing?" I asked.

"For service," answered Sharpless, as tranquilly as though nothing were the matter, while she felt my pulse, and then put her hand on my forehead.

I tried to raise my own hand, but it felt strangely useless.

"What has happened? Have I been ill?" I asked.

"Yes, quite ill, but I hope you are better now. See, take this broth, my dear lamb."

(Sharpless is very punctilious in giving Betty and me our proper titles when we are well, but when we are ill, or in trouble, she falls back into all her Devon forms of endearment.)

I drank the broth obediently.

"How good it tastes!" said I.

"I am glad to hear you say so," she answered. "It shows the fever hath left you. But do not talk, my lamb. Lie still, and try to sleep again."

I slept well all night, but was waked early by singing under my window. As I turned, Sharpless rose from the great chair by the bed.

"How thoughtless," said she. "I wonder no one remembered to hinder the waits from coming."

"The waits!" I said, in wonder. "Is it Christmas already?"

"Yes, my dear, Christmas morning."

"Please don't stop the singing. I love to hear it," said I.

And, indeed, it sounded very sweetly in the cold, frosty air. The rector is very fond of music, and a great promoter of it among his flock. As I lay and listened, I found the tears stealing down my cheeks; and they seemed to wash away the last clouds from my brain, so that I could think clearly. I have not been able to shed a tear in all my troubles before, but now I wept freely. And Sharpless did not check me at first, but kissed and poor deared me, and stroked my hair, like a mother with a sick babe. By and by, she began gently to hush me, and after a time, I fell asleep again.

When my aunt brought the doctor in to see me, he pronounced me out of all danger if I were only prudent.

"Then you think she needs no more bleeding nor medicine?" asked my aunt, rather anxiously.

"Nothing but a few glasses of good port-wine which your own cellars will furnish, and a little cordial which I will send her, to spoil her pretty mouth with making faces," answered the doctor, with a laugh it did me good to hear, it was so good-natured and cheerful. "I will send you a portion of the powder of Jesuits' bark, which you will put into a pint of port-wine, and let her have a glass three times a day."

"Then you believe in the Jesuits' bark," said my aunt. "Some say, you know, that his late Majesty was poisoned thereby."

"Some talk great nonsense," returned the doctor. "If his Majesty had taken nothing but the bark, he might have been alive now. The treatment they gave him, however well meant, was enough to kill a donkey, in my opinion. I have seen this medicine used when I was in South America; and I can assure you, madam, it hath not its equal in rousing the power of nature to throw off disease.—But you look gravely on it, nurse," he added, turning to Mrs. Sharpless, who did, indeed, wear a face of strong disapproval. "Confess, now, that the name scares you."

Sharpless owned she could not believe any thing good which came from that quarter.

"There you are mistaken," said the doctor. "The Jesuits have made known to us several valuable remedies; and I, who have seen them in South America, can testify to their kindness to the poor oppressed Indians, standing between them and their cruel Spanish masters, who there, as everywhere, spoil all they touch. Besides," he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "Jesuits' bark is not the true name of the medicine, which is called cinchona by the natives of those parts, who make great use of it."

Sharpless's face cleared up on this. She has been obliged to allow the virtues of the medicine, which has cured herself of an obstinate pain in her face. It ought to do good, for the taste is horrible.

We were to have gone to Mr. Richard Fullham's to keep our Christmas, but my illness prevented. Our own Christmas passed very quietly. My bed was covered with pretty gifts from all my friends; even the old rector bringing me a beautiful little cup of Venetian glass from his collection. He prayed with me, and did hint something about the holy communion, but I did not respond. I feel I am in no state for it.

My recovery has been tolerably rapid, and my aunt hopes by Twelfth Day I may be able to go to Mr. Fullham's with the rest of them. I would very much rather stay at home, but I am determined to please my aunt in all things, so far as I am able. It is all I can do in return for her kindness to me. I can't be happy, to please her,—"that" I am sure I shall never be again,—but I will try not to be a kill-joy, at least.

Looking forward from the last day of this year, which has been such an eventful one for me, I seem to see life stretching on before me as a long road over a barren plain, without tree or shrub or shady grove or living spring, and ending—who knows where? If I were good, like poor Mercy Lane, I might take comfort in religion, but I am not good. My heart rises at times in fierce rebellion at my lot. I feel as if Providence had mocked me; as if one should hold a cool and sweet draught to a thirsty man's lips, and after one mouthful should dash the liquor on the ground. Then, again, it is, as I say, as if all the fair plains and fertile hills and running streams were past, and only the barren, desert plain remained to be gone over. I don't really care for any thing, unless it be visiting among the poor folks, and talking with the old women and little children; and I cannot do that now.

_January 8, 1686._

I did not go to Mr. Fullham's after all, having a little return of headache and fever, but the rest went, leaving me in the care of Mrs. Sharpless. I have rather enjoyed the quiet and loneliness, and have amused myself with roaming about the house, and looking at all the curious things which my uncle Foster collected in his lifetime. He must have been a man of great taste and learning. The rector, Dr. Burgoin, tells me he was a most amiable man, of courtly manners, and very devout, but that he cared nothing at all for riches or worldly honors; and though he had great connections, who might have advanced his fortunes, he never courted them, or sought their notice. I can't but wonder how he and my aunt got on together, for, with all her excellent qualities, it must be confessed that the world and society are all in all to her.

I walked down to the little hamlet this morning to see the Penberthys. The rector joined me coming back, and showed me a great curiosity, as he calls it. I had often noticed it before, but knew not what it was,—a circular mound or earthwork, within which stand two great stones, covered with a third, making a kind of little grotto. There seems to have been a fourth slab, forming another side, but it has fallen down. Dr. Burgoin says this earthen bank and the little grotto it encloses are the work of the British people long ago, before the Saxons, or even the Romans, came into this land. He says there are many such about here, and have been many more, but the vandal plough, as he calls it, has destroyed them. He has himself a fine museum of Roman coins, pottery, and the like, found in his various explorations, and, what he values still more, a kind of necklace or circlet of gold, which he dug out of an earthwork on his own father's estate, near Arlington.

Dr. Burgoin tells me that Dame Penberthy really came to church with her daughter-in-law, last Sunday. He is very much pleased. I asked him what arguments he had used to induce her to do so.

"None, directly," he answered. "I have not found much use in that. I did but read and pray with her, and strive to console her with those arguments which are common to all Christians. She told me yesterday, of her own accord, that she hoped grace had been given her to forgive even her husband's murderer."

I am glad if she can forgive him. I can't, and that is the truth; neither can I forgive myself for being such a blind fool, as I can see now that I was. When I think of those meetings in the park,—of the things he said to me, and the liberties I allowed him,—I am ready to eat my own heart for rage and shame. But all that is done now. I shall never love any man again.

_January 10._

Our people have returned. Betty does not seem to have enjoyed herself greatly, though she says every one was very kind. Nor do I think the company was much to my aunt's taste, though she says my uncle Richard and his wife are good people, and the girls would be very presentable with a little polish. To-morrow we go to Fullham, my uncle's estate, where Mr. Cheney, who has rented the place for five years, desires to see my uncle on business.

_January 20._

We came home last night, after a week's visit at Fullham, and glad am I to be quiet once more. Such a house full of company—dancing and card-playing every night, when a sufficient number of gentlemen could be mustered sober enough for partners.

Mr. Cheney has made a great deal of money in one way or other; no one seems to know exactly how, only he has been many years in South America and the West Indies. A lady whispered to me that every one knew Mr. Cheney had made the most of his wealth by piracy and the slave-trade, for all he held his head so high. I did not think she need have said as much, seeing that she was partaking of his hospitality. He is a small, dark man, with very piercing eyes, which seemed to me always as it were on the alert, watching every thing and everybody, but that might be only my fancy, after what the lady told me. He is polite and accomplished, but I could not like him, for all his compliments, nor Bess either. Mrs. Cheney is a fine, handsome lady, well educated, and graceful, whom he married abroad, they say the daughter of a Spanish grandee whom he carried off. He is very kind and attentive to her, but I can't help thinking she is afraid of him. He has been very liberal in his dealings with my uncle, allowing him to take any furniture he pleased, though all went with the house.

Betty has brought away a desk and cabinet which Meg always used, and my aunt has given me a lute and a workbox which were hers. Mr. Cheney made us each a handsome present at parting. I don't think aunt was sorry to come away, though the company was much to her taste. The truth is, that play ran pretty high of nights, and I suspect my uncle hath a weakness that way. I know a good deal of money changed hands, both among the men and women.

I had one pleasure connected with the visit; I met my old acquaintance Mr. Studley, who dined with us one day along with his father. We had quite a little chat afterward in the withdrawing-room, he having made his escape from the table early. He tells me my lady is in London, and that she finds great comfort in Mrs. Patty's society. I am glad of it, but I wish she were down here, that I might see her sometimes.

"She is an excellent lady," remarked my aunt, "but she lives in a world of her own."

"Pardon me, madam," said Mr. Studley, bowing, "not a world of her own. My good Lady Clarenham's conversation is in heaven."

My aunt was prevented from answering by someone who asked her a question.

Mr. Studley asked me if I were enjoying my visit.

"In some ways," I answered. "I like to hear Mrs. Cheney play and sing, and I am glad to have beheld the great sea with my own eyes. It must be lovely here in summer."

"We must take you up to North Devon, and show you the ocean there," said Mr. Studley, with animation.

And he began to describe to me the great cliffs affronting the waves, the deep caverns under them, with hidden rifts through which are thrown up columns of spray when the surf is high, the long coombes running down to the sea, with wooded banks, and clear streams running through them, and I know not what other beauties. Presently, he checked himself, and said apologetically,—

"Pardon me if I weary you. Perhaps you do not care for such things."

"You do not weary me," I answered. "I love to hear of natural scenery."

"You have been abroad?" he asked.

I told him "no," and added that "I had hardly been out of the sound of Bow bells till I came to Devon."

"And you like the country," he said. "You do not pine for London?"

"No, indeed!" I answered with truth. "I never care to see it again. But you have been abroad?"

"Yes, I have been something of a traveller for a man of my age," he answered. "I have been as far as Jerusalem."

I asked him some questions, and we had really a very pleasant talk. He speaks fluently, yet modestly, and has very little to say about himself. Before we parted, he drew from his pocket a little wooden box containing a small cross carved in veined wood.

"You were saying that you would like to possess something that came from Jerusalem. Will you accept this cross which I bought at Bethlehem, instead? The box is of sandal-wood, and was made at Jaffa, which is thought to be the Joppa of Scripture."

I could not well refuse the gift, and I must say I was very much pleased with it. The cross is made of olive-wood, very daintily carved, and the box has a sweet perfume. Afterwards I was a little doubtful whether I had done right in accepting a present, and showed it to my aunt.

"There was no harm in taking such a present as that," said my aunt. "Young ladies should not accept valuable gifts from gentlemen unless they are accepted suitors, but a mere curiosity which has no special money value is quite a different matter. But I am pleased to see you so open, Dolly. If young ladies would always be so, they would save themselves and their friends a great deal of trouble."

I think I know that. I am resolved I will have no secrets from my aunt while I am under her roof.

When I showed the cross to Dr. Burgoin, he said he would add a chain to it, and gave me a string of carved pearl beads which he said came from Nazareth. It seems he hath also been in the Holy Land, and even as far east as Shiraz in Persia, when he was travelling with my uncle Foster.

_January 21._

I have heard a piece of news which I don't know how to believe. Dr. Burdett dined here. He has recently been to Bath, and was amusing my aunt, who is not very well, with accounts of the humors of that place. Presently he turned to me.

"I met an old friend or acquaintance of yours, Mrs. Dolly. My brother was sent for to see a lady with an attack of spasms; and, as he had a broken leg on his hands, he sent me in his stead to see my Lady Corbet."

"My old mistress," said I. "And how did you find her?"

"With as promising an attack of indigestion as one would wish to see."

"I suppose she had been eating lobster again," said I.

"Exactly. She had a hard time, but I relieved her at last. Her gentlewoman, a very nice middle-aged body, hearing I was from Exeter, asked me if I had met you, and seemed very glad to hear from you."

"Dear Mrs. Williams! She was ever a most kind friend to me," said I.

"She is not likely to stay long where she is, if all tales be true," said the doctor. "My lady is going to be married."

"Impossible!" I exclaimed.

"Very possible," said the doctor. "Such things happen every day."

"But she has been married twice before; and she was always complaining of Sir Charles for spending her money and neglecting her, as she said."

"I suppose she thinks 'better luck next time,'" observed my uncle. "Who is the happy man on this occasion?"

"One Capt. Morley, an officer of Kirke's. It is said he has made a deal of money to his own share in the late confiscations."

"A nice way to make money," said my uncle.

"A way that some greater people than he have not been ashamed of," said Dr. Burdett. "Even the queen's ladies of honor have traded in the ransoms of the poor little maidens who were betrayed by their school-mistress into presenting the duke with a banner."

"Well, I wonder at that," said my uncle. "One would not be surprised at any thing in such a hound as this Morley, but that ladies should meddle with such gains does amaze me."

"Scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings, if they be but rich enough," observed the doctor. He is always shocking my aunt with his proverbs, which, truth to tell, are apt to be more forcible than elegant. But just now her kind heart was too much occupied with her poor little niece to allow her to give her kinsman more than a reproving look.

"Dorothy, my love, had you not better change your seat? I fear the air blows on you from that window," said she. "Thomas, set Mrs. Dorothy's chair and plate here by me."

The little bustle of the change made a diversion, and when we were settled, my aunt asked Dr. Burgoin (who also dined with us) if it were true that the Bath had been known so long as people said. No more was needed to set the good man off full tilt on his favorite hobby-horse; and between King Blalud and the Romans, and I know not what Saxon saints, the perilous subject was forgotten. I never did see any one with so much tact and skill as my dear aunt.

When we were alone together, I could not forbear putting my arms round her neck and kissing her, though she does not encourage caresses. She returned the kiss, and told me I had behaved beautifully, adding that I had better lie down and rest a little, and that I need not appear at supper unless I liked. I told her I would rather go out in the air, and walk, to which she consented.

But to think of his marrying that old woman, old enough to be his mother, and with all he knows of her temper. If I wished for revenge for all my wrongs, which I am sure I do not, I am in a way to have it. But, as I think of it, I do believe she always liked him. She never made him any of the insulting speeches she bestowed so liberally on every one else, and she would always go to extra expense for supper when he visited us.

Poor Mrs. Williams, I wonder what she will do! I am sure she will never in the world live under the same roof with that man, whom she always disliked. I know she has saved money, and, besides, her skill and accomplishments will easily find her another place. But I think she will feel sadly, for I know she loved her mistress.

My head aches again to-night, but I am determined I will not be ill if I can help it. I fancy Dr. Burdett thought something was wrong, for he asked me specially after my health, and told me to take my Jesuits' bark again.

_January 30._

I have had a slight return of fever, but not nearly so bad as the last, and I am nearly well again; so that I hope to go down to the village to-morrow to see Priscilla Penberthy, who has lost her pretty little maid. Poor thing, she has sorrow on sorrow, and yet she is so very good! I don't understand it. Sometimes I think the best people have the most trouble, like poor Mr. Baxter and the Pendergasts; and then again I think of mine own, which certainly did not proceed from any goodness on my part.

_February 1._

I have had an adventure which came near costing me dear. That I am alive to write it down, is owing to Mr. Studley.

I had been down, to see poor Priscilla, whom I found indeed in deep affliction, but taking her trouble in such a sweet and patient spirit as I never saw before, and could not too much admire. She says Dr. Burgoin hath been very kind to her. He has quite won over Dame Penberthy, who now goes to church every Sunday.

Coming back I took a somewhat lonely path through the park, intending to look for snowdrops, which grow very plentifully at one place, which they say was once a piece of the old convent garden. I found abundance of the pretty white blossoms peeping above the short grass, and gathered my hands full of them. I had come within sight of the nun's grave (so the people call the little grotto within the earthwork, from some idle tale or other), when I heard a strange noise behind me; and looking round I saw a great stag pushing his way through the bushes.

I was not scared at first, for the stags are not often dangerous so late in the winter, but I suppose something had put him out of humor, for the moment he saw me he began pawing and tearing up the earth, and bellowing,—I don't know the proper name for the noise they make. I looked about. There was no tree that I could climb or even get behind. I had sense enough not to run, and I retreated backward toward a great oak in which was a hollow wherein I thought I might creep. The stag seemed to grow more and more enraged every moment, now making a rush toward me, and now stopping as I stopped, and tearing up the turf. I was weak from my illness, and feared every moment to fall. I am not a coward, but I had given myself up for lost, when I heard a clear, cheery voice behind me say in encouraging tones, —

"To the stones, Mrs. Corbet, to the stones, but do not run, for your life. I will divert him."

And with that Mr. Studley stepped out into the open glade. And taking off his cloak, he shook it, shouting loudly at the same time. But the stag was not to be diverted. He seemed to regard me as the one enemy whom he had been seeking all his life. He just turned his head a moment, and then made another rush.

"Ah, well, we must fight for it then!" said Mr. Studley composedly. He drew his sword as he spoke, calling to me to go on.

But my strength was spent, and I dropped in a heap on the ground, and covered my face, but I did not faint. I heard the sound of a desperate struggle, and then a fall.

I dared not look up till a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a kind voice said cheerily,—

"Look up, Mrs. Dorothy. The danger is over. Look up and see your fallen adversary."

I looked up: Mr. Studley was standing by me, covered with blood and dust, but apparently unhurt. The stag lay on the ground dead. Like a fool, instead of thanking my preserver, I burst into tears. I think my weeping scared Mr. Studley almost as much as the stag had frightened me. However, he behaved very well. He brought me some water from a spring near by, in a cup which he took out of his pocket; fanned me with his hat; and, when I made an effort to rise, he helped me to my feet, and stood looking at me with such a face of alarm, that he nearly set me off laughing.

"Don't mind me," said I. "It was silly to cry, but I am not very strong, and a little thing over-sets me."

"An attack from an enraged stag can hardly be called a little thing," said Mr. Studley, looking immensely relieved. "I am overjoyed that I happened to come this way. Thank God."

He took off his hat, and spoke as if he meant it.

"But you are worn out, and it is too cold and damp for you to sit down. Let me take you to the house," said he; "and in good time here comes Sir Robert to call me to account for killing his deer."

My uncle was indeed just coming down the path from the house.

"Hullo, Dolly! I was coming to look for you," he shouted. "Dan Lee has just told me that the old black stag was in a fury; and I feared he might meet you and do you a mischief. Who have we here—Mr. Studley?"

"At your service, sir," said Mr. Studley, bowing. "As to the stag, he will do no more mischief, I take it, for yonder he lies."

"Hullo, what does this mean?" asked Sir Robert, staring first at the deer and then at Mr. Studley. "Are you turned deer-stealer, Master Precisian?"

"You see at least I have not carried off my booty, Sir Robert," answered Mr. Studley, smiling, "so you can send me to jail as soon as you please, since you have taken me red-handed."

"Mr. Studley saved my life, uncle," said I. And then, collecting my wits, I told him all about it.

"I hoped to entangle the creature in my cloak, and so spare his life," added Mr. Studley, "but he baffled me, so we had a hand-to-hand fight for it. I thought he would be too much for me, and longed for my good hunting-knife instead of this toy," taking up his sword from the grass, "but I will hold it sacred henceforth, since it has done such good service."

"And are you unhurt yourself?" asked my uncle. "You know 'hurt of hart' is no laughing matter."

"I have but a few scratches, which are of no manner of consequence," answered Mr. Studley. "Had we not better take Mrs. Dolly to the house, Sir Robert?"

"Ay, do so; and I will take order for this venison."

"He was a gallant fellow," remarked Mr. Studley, pausing a moment to look at his fallen adversary. "How happens it that he keeps his horns so late as this?"

"That I can't tell you. It was an oddity of his, and for that and his great size, I prized him. But you have done well, sir, and I thank you most heartily," added my uncle, with that courtly grace which belongs to him with all his roughness. "We had been a sorrowful household if old Bevis had trampled down our clove-gilliflower. Now you must stay and sup with us. Nay, I will take no denial," as Mr. Studley began to speak of his disarray. "I will lend you a suit, or send for one of your own, but you must give my lady a chance to thank you for saving our dear niece."

So they settled it between them, and Mr. Studley staid. But I did not help to entertain him, for I was no sooner in my room than I was taken with a chill, enough to shake me to pieces, so that Betty ran for Sharpless and for her mother in all haste. The poor child really thought I was dying.

But Dr. Burnett being summoned, (he is staying here at present) said the trouble only came from my being scared and over-wrought. He gave me some composing drops, and bade Sharpless bring me some tea, a drink which he greatly approves, and which Sharpless regards with horror, as I remember Mrs. Williams used to do. He would prepare it for me himself, tempering it with cream and sugar. And I must say I found it very comforting and refreshing. Then he would have a cup himself; and by some magic of coaxing, he made Sharpless have another, and even allow that it was pleasant.

My aunt came up to see me after supper, and told me Mr. Studley had made himself very agreeable. It seems he is visiting Dr. Burgoin, who is his old tutor.

"He is a fine young man," said my aunt: "'tis a pity he has taken up such a strict set of notions."

"Such as what, madam?" asked Betty, who had staid with me instead of going to supper.

"Oh, he happened to let fall that he had been in Seville, where you know your father went with my Lord Sandwich, when he was embassador to Spain. But when Sir Robert asked him about their bull-feasts, he answered, almost with horror, that he had never witnessed one. And on Sir Robert's asking why, he said he could not think the sight of innocent beasts tortured, and men's lives put in jeopardy, was one for a Christian man to delight in. And when Sir Robert said he had seen good Christian men, and women also, looking on at a bull-baiting, Mr. Studley said very gravely,—

"'Sir Robert, can you imagine our blessed Lord and his mother making a part of the company at such a show?'

"I think your father would have been downright angry if the young man had not just done us such a service.—Is he a Presbyterian, do you know, Dolly?"

"No, aunt. I heard him say when he was at Lady Clarenham's that he was an unworthy member of the Church of England."

"Ah, well, I am glad of it with all my heart!" said my aunt, as though she was rejoicing that he was not a forger or coiner. "But it is a great pity that he has taken up such notions. He ought to know more than to set himself up to be so much better than his elders. As if the best people in the land did not promote bull-baitings as a means of keeping up a brave spirit among the common people!"

"I do not see any thing very brave in a set of men looking on to see savage dogs torment a poor tethered beast," said Betty. "I always did like it in Gen. Cromwell that he stopped the bear-baiting, and put the poor tortured creatures out of their pain." ¹

¹ Macaulay says the Puritan contrived to have the pleasure of tormenting both the spectators and the bear, while the story he tells proves exactly the contrary to any thinking person. But Macaulay never hesitated to sacrifice any thing to the witty or graceful turn of a paragraph.

"Hush, Betty, you are very much to blame," said her mother severely. "I don't know what your father would say to hear his daughter praising Cromwell."

Betty was silent, of course, but she did not look very penitent. I must say I think she was right; and, if a thing is wrong, I don't see that the fact of respectable people encouraging it makes the matter any better.

_February 28._

I have quite recovered from my adventure, which did Mr. Studley more harm than it did me. The wound on his arm, which he made so light of that he would hardly let my aunt do it up with some of her famous healing balsam, inflamed, and was very painful, and even dangerous. However, Dr. Burnett cured it at last. I am glad he was staying here. He has been examining my uncle Foster's books for some scientific matter or other. There are a great quantity of them, as well as many manuscripts, both in Greek and Arabic, which Dr. Burnett says are very valuable. He showed us one very old one, done on vellum, which he says is Persian. It looks as if an army of flies and spiders had held a desperate engagement, and left their severed members behind them. I believe Sharpless was out and out afraid of it.

As I said, Mr. Studley had a bad time with his arm, but it is now quite well again. He has made us several visits, and is a prime favorite with my uncle, who is obliged to own that the young man is no milksop, though he is so strict in his religious notions. There is a very fine young horse on the place, of the best blood, and a most beautiful creature, but so wild and fierce in his temper that no one has been able to break him heretofore, and all the men are afraid of him. Mr. Studley begged my uncle to allow him to take the creature in hand, and he consented, somewhat unwillingly, thinking it a dangerous experiment. But in a week's time, Mr. Studley had Sultan as tame as a kitten, and the creature will follow him anywhere,—all by the force of kindness, as it seems, though the grooms will have it there is some magic in the matter.

My uncle told us about it. He said Mr. Studley walked up to the door of the loose box; and when Sultan came at him, laying back his ears and showing his teeth, he just held out his hand to him. Sultan stopped as if amazed, and presently approaching, almost timidly as it seemed, began smelling his hand and arm. By and by Mr. Studley slipped the other hand over his head and began stroking his ears, and presently offered him some sugar in his open palm. And so he went on from one endearment to another, till Sultan at length allowed his new friend to slip a bridle on him and lead him about. Mr. Studley says he learned the secret among the Arabians, who never beat their horses nor break them, as we understand breaking, but bring them up to be friends and companions. It does seem a much more sensible way. I think I should try it with children if I had any, but it is not likely I shall ever be married.

_March 1._

A great thing has happened. Mr. Studley has asked my uncle for my hand in marriage, bringing a letter from his father to the same effect, the old gentleman being confined with gout.

At first, when my aunt broke the matter to me, I thought I could not entertain the idea for a moment, but she has given me several days for consideration, and I have changed my mind. I shall tell my aunt, when she asks me, that I will marry Mr. Studley.

In the first place, though I can never love him nor any man again in that way, yet Mr. Studley is one that I can heartily respect and admire. 'Tis true he is over-strict, it may be, in his notions, but that is a fault on the right side. If he does not play, he will not gamble away his substance, as so many young men—yes, and old ones—do in these days. And if he is no drinker, I shall not be mortified by seeing him under the table, or hearing him talk vile, blasphemous nonsense, in his cups, as poor little Mrs. Lightfoot's husband did at Fullham, I remember.

Then, though my aunt and uncle make light of it, I know I am something of a charge to them. My uncle lost much money by his ventures, and I can't but think he has lost more in play with Mr. Cheney. He hath been to Fullham two or three times, and always comes home in a bad humor; and my dear aunt looks very anxious and unhappy at these times. Mr. Studley asks for no dowry with me. He is his father's only son, and the old gentleman is rich.

And I suppose I must marry some time or other. My good aunt thinks women were made for no other end, and that no so great misfortune can befall any one as to be an old maiden, as they call them hereabouts. I have heard her wonder how old Lady Jem Stanton's family could have allowed her to follow such an eccentric course. (She was a lady of quality, who lived in her own house not very far from here. She never married, but kept her house full of orphan maids, whom she brought up in all good ways and housewifely accomplishments. She died only the other day at a great age.)

My aunt, since we came here, has talked of several matches for me; and I know she would never be satisfied to have me live single. I owe every thing to her kindness, and I owe my life to Mr. Studley's bravery. And if I can pleasure them both at once, why should I not do so? I can honestly say that I have not one particle of love for Mr. Morley remaining in my heart. Somehow, the notion of his marrying that woman and being subject to her caprices, did set him in such a mean and ridiculous light that it finished the cure which Dame Penberthy began. I could never love a cruel man.

I think I can make Mr. Studley a good, dutiful wife. I wish I did love him more, but my aunt says that will come, and perhaps she is right. I do love him, in a way; that is, I would like him for my brother. If he had taken to Bess, I should have been delighted.

_March 3._

I told my aunt this morning, on her questioning me, that I was ready to content her and my uncle by marrying Mr. Studley. She was very much pleased, kissed me, called me her good, dutiful daughter, and was sure I should be very happy.

My uncle looked rather doubtful.

"I don't know. She does not look as she did when the other fellow was in hand," he muttered, thinking aloud, as his fashion is; and then to me, "Are you sure you are content, Dolly? I won't have my clove-gilliflower sacrificed to anybody, not if I go out as a ploughman to keep her."

"I am sure, Dolly—" my aunt began.

But my uncle interrupted her.

"Let her speak for herself, my lady," he said. "What is it, Doll? Speak out, and have no fear."

Thus adjured, I told my uncle I was perfectly content to marry Mr. Studley, whom I esteemed above any young man I had ever seen, and respected as well; and that I would do my best to make him a good wife. I don't think my uncle was quite satisfied, but he kissed me, and wished me joy, and then said he would put poor Studley out of pain.

I hope Mr. Studley will not expect too much of me. I shall try to have a full and frank explanation with him if I can. I won't marry any man under false pretences.

_March 4._

Mr. Studley called this morning, and my aunt informed him that I had accepted his proposals. I must say he behaved beautifully. But oh, if they would only let me live single! I don't wonder girls in popish countries go into nunneries to escape from unwelcome suitors. Good as Mr. Studley is, and much as I respect,—yes, and love him too, in a way,—I would rather go back to my old way of life with my mistress than marry him. But the die is cast. My word is passed, and I cannot recede. All that remains is to do my duty in that state of life to which it hath pleased God to call me. When I said as much to Betty, she took me up sharply.

"You do not quote it rightly, Dolly. The catechism does not say, 'To which it "hath,"' but 'to which it SHALL please God to call me.' That is a very different matter. And I think one ought to be very sure of that call, before undertaking what you are about to do."

Betty grows more and more serious every day. She has read my "Pilgrim's Progress" till I think she knows it by heart. My aunt mentioned it to the bishop, but my lord only laughed, and said young maids were always taking fancies, and it was not worth while to make them of importance by opposition.

He talked with Betty very kindly and seriously afterward, and I suppose he was satisfied with her spiritual state; for he told my aunt that her daughter was a young lady of an excellent spirit, though somewhat inclined to austerity.

"But that is a good fault, and not common in these days," he added. "For my part, I should never quarrel with a young lady for loving visiting the poor more than dancing, and her closet and her Bible more than the card-table and the Devil's books, as you know Mrs. Dolly's Presbyterian friends call them."

"But you do not think there is any harm in cards," said my aunt.

"No more than in push-pin or jack-straws, considered in themselves," answered his lordship; "'tis the use that is made of them. You must see, Lady Fullham, all the evils that are now wrought in the community by gambling; how many families are impoverished and disgraced thereby."

"Yes, indeed," said my aunt, sighing.

And, indeed, gambling does prevail to a fearful extent. Even the clergy and their families are not exempt. I think the bishop might give us a sermon on it, instead of some of those on passive obedience and Divine right with which he wearies us,—or me at least. I can't help wondering how his non-resistance would hold out if the king were to put one of his popish priests into the sea of Exeter, for instance,—a thing not so unlikely to happen, if matters go on as we hear they are going at present.

_March 8._

The day is fixed for my wedding,—the 15th of April. My aunt and Sharpless are over head and ears in wedding-clothes. My uncle has been liberal, though I know he is cramped for money, but I think most of my things have come from my aunt's private purse, and then she hath given me most of the wardrobe provided for poor dear Meg.

Mr. Studley has done us another service, which I think hath bound my aunt to him forever. He was invited to go with my uncle to Fullham. Now, he does not like Mr. Cheney any more than I do, and he neither drinks to excess nor gambles: so the society at Fullham is not specially congenial to him. But I think he read something in my aunt's face which made him consent to Sir Robert's request that he would ride over with him. Contrary to what has been the case heretofore, my uncle came home rather early.

The next morning I was sitting with my aunt, mending of some rare old lace which she has given me, when my uncle came in and threw himself down in a great chair.

"So, busy with the wedding finery," said he. "I must say, gilliflower, thou hast chosen the queerest stick of a bridegroom." (As if I had chosen him at all!) "I would you had seen him last night."

"Why, what did he do?" asked my aunt. "Nothing unbecoming, I trust."

"Why, no; at least, I suppose you would not say so. The beginning was at supper. Mr. Cheney produced some Greek wines, which he greatly commended, but Studley would not taste them, saying he had tried them in their native country, and found them heady and heating. And I think they are. I know they got into my head, which is pretty well seasoned."

"Well," said my aunt, as my uncle paused.

"Well, Cheney urged them on Studley, and laughed and jeered him more than was becoming a gentleman at his own table, I thought, but not a whit was my master moved, nor did he lose his temper, though I saw his eyes flash at one jest of his host's, which I will not repeat in a lady's ears. By and by, we sat down to cards. Mr. Studley played a game or two of piquet, but when the betting began, he put down his cards, and rose from the table.

"'What, man! Art afraid of losing thy pocket-money, and being whipped by thy dad?' said Mr. Cheney. 'Thou lookest at the cards as though they were so many spotted adders. Take courage, they will not bite thee.'

"'If you had had a dear friend bitten to death by an adder, you would not care to play with the beast, not even if his fangs were drawn; much less when you saw them dropping venom,' answered Studley.

"'What mean you by that?' asked Mr. Cheney.

"'I can tell you the tale, if you desire to hear it,' answered Studley.

"'Oh, tell it, by all means!' sneered our host. And I do think the man looks like an incarnate fiend when he wears that mocking smile.

"I suppose he thought to find more food for mockery, but he never was more mistaken in his life. Mr. Studley began, and told us of a friend of his who had been at college and abroad with him, who was drawn into high play at Paris, whither he had gone, carrying with him a considerable sum belonging to some widow lady. He was drawn into play, and lost it all. Then he came to his friend's apartment, and told the story, saying that he could not and would not survive the disgrace.

"'I strove to keep him, saying the money might be retrieved or replaced,' continued Studley, 'but all my arguments were in vain. He broke from me and rushed into the street, and I lost him in the crowd. The next day I saw his dead body drawn out of the river. He had left a letter to me, enclosing one to his father; and I had to carry to the poor, white-haired old gentleman the news of his only son's disgrace and death. He never held up his head afterward, but died in a few days. Do you wonder, gentlemen, that I have no liking for that which ruined, body and soul, the man I had loved like an own brother?'

"That was his tale, but I can't tell it as he did. I can tell you, he brought tears to my eyes, for one. Lightfoot, who has been both playing and drinking deeply of late, flung down his hand, and said, with a deep curse, that he wished the Devil, who invented cards and dice, had them again. Cheney blustered a little, and talked of spoil-sports and wet blankets, but all the company took sides with Studley, and he fairly broke up the party for that time."

"I am thankful for it," said my aunt.

"Well, you may be thankful, my lady," returned my uncle bluntly. "I was in no state to play coolly, and I might have lost pretty deeply. I have already left in Cheney's hands more than I can well afford, and I am ready to swear that I will go thither no more."

"I wish you would, Sir Robert," said my aunt earnestly. "There is that about the man which repels me, though I cannot tell what it is."

"They tell hard stories about him," observed my uncle; "as that he hath been a slave-dealer, or even a pirate. Studley says he is sure he hath seen him in the East, though he cannot tell where. But I would you had seen and heard the young fellow. I wonder at such notions in the son of old George Studley, who was any thing but a saint when I knew him."

Anyhow, I like Mr. Studley none the worse for his conduct. I think it must take more courage for a young man to stand up in that way, than if he had faced a battery of cannon.

I have had a great pleasure in a letter from Bab Andrews. She promised to write me, but I did not build much upon it, knowing how much she would have to engage her attention, and how infrequent is the communication, but then, if Bab promised any thing, it was ever certain to come to pass. I am sure, if my aunt knew her, she would get over some of her violent prejudices—for they are no more—against every one who does not belong to the Church of England. My mistress felt just so towards every one who was not a Presbyterian, and could hardly forgive Mr. Baxter for allowing that an Anabaptist could write a good book. I think one is about as reasonable as the other. Of course, I believe my side is right, because it would not otherwise be my side. And if I think salt is white, I must needs think that man mistaken who says it is black or red, but that need not make me consider him a hypocrite or a villain.

However, I have got a long way from Bab and her letter. She tells me they had a long though a prosperous voyage, and landed at a place called Newcastle, which is some way up the great river of the Delawares, and quite a thriving little town. However, she did not stay there, but in a few days removed to the other side of the river, to West Jersey, where her aunt lives in a place called Cohansey Bridge-town. Bab says the bridge is there, such as it is, but the town is still greatly to seek, there being not more than six or eight houses in all. ¹

¹ I am not quite certain that there was any town at all, though there was a bridge at this point in very early times.

Bab writes as follows:—

"I had expected a good many hardships and privations, and was surprised enough to find my good aunt living in great comfort, in a neat house, partly of stone and partly of hewn logs, but all pleasant and comfortable. The stone is of a dark red color, and when first taken out of the ground cuts very easily, but by exposure to the weather becomes hard enough for building. The log houses are warm, and to my thinking very pretty. The worst is they harbor insects, and especially earwigs as long as your finger, very frightful, but not dangerous, though they can give a nip in self-defence, but they are very timid and easily killed.

"My aunt hath a fine orchard of peach and apple trees, and we have abundance of nice winter apples, and of peaches also, which are preserved by being cut into quarters and dried in the sun. They are very good, and so plentiful that the poorest people can have them. The climate is mild even now, and I enclose a rosebud which I gathered in our garden yesterday.

"There is full liberty in these parts for every one to worship God in his own way. We have half a dozen sorts represented in this little settlement,—Quakers, Presbyterians, and Anabaptists,—but all live in peace. The Presbyterians have Sunday worship in the little log schoolhouse, when there is any one to conduct it."

She tells me a great deal more about the place and country,—of the Indian savages, who live in great peace with the white people; of the birds, which are abundant; and of the little school which she has set up, and in which she has gathered all the children of the settlement,—and ends with these words:—

"I would you were with me, Dolly. Do you know, when I used to build my castle in the air, about coming out here, you always occupied one room thereof? I fully intended to ask you to come with me, whenever I came, but of course, after your aunt so kindly adopted you, that was out of the question."

When I read this to my aunt, who was much interested in the letter, she said,—

"But you would never have gone, Dolly?"

"I believe I should, madam," I answered. "I think I should have done almost any thing to escape from Lady Corbet, and I was always fond of Bab."

"Ah, well, it hath all ended for the best," observed my aunt. "I am glad I came in the nick of time to save you from such a fate."

Am I glad? I don't know that I am. I think I would like to be in New Jersey with Bab at this minute, gathering of wild flowers, which she says make the land like a garden, or helping her in her little school, or her aunt in the farm-work. No, I can't say that I think all is for the best. But, as things were then, should I have gone? I can't tell, and there is no use in speculating.

I don't understand my own feelings at all. I think sometimes I have none. I am content to drift with the current, careless where I shall land. I hope, for the sake of my family, I shall make no utter shipwreck. I hope, too, that I shall make a good wife to my husband, who certainly deserves a far better one.

_March 20._

How fast the time runs on! News has come from London which has decided my aunt and uncle to go thither as soon as the wedding is over. It is something concerning my uncle's speculating venture, out of which he hopes to save somewhat. I think my aunt is pleased. So is not Betty, who hates London and all the round of plays and balls and all the rest of the gayeties.

Mr. Studley hath been home to visit his father, and I cannot but think since his return his spirits have been somewhat flatter than his wont. He tells me one thing which I am glad to hear; namely, that his father hath promised to fit up a separate house on the estate for us, that we may keep house.

"'Tis but a plain old house and not large," said he to me, "but it is comfortable; and I thought you would rather govern your own household, though it was but a small one."

"You were right," said I. "I believe it is much the best arrangement. I don't care how plain the house is, so we do but have it to ourselves."

"You don't care for luxury," remarked Mr. Studley, looking well-pleased.

"I won't say that," I answered. "I like it well enough, but even in my short life, I have seen enough to know that outward things have little to do with happiness."

"You are right there, Dolly," said Mr. Studley, sighing. "Unless there be peace within, no outward peace avails any thing. But I hope we shall have both in our quiet little home."

Then he went on to describe to me the house and garden, the poultry yard, and other conveniences; and I listened, glad to please him in any way. Finally I asked about the church and parson. He shook his head rather sadly.

"The church is well enough, though small and rustical, but there are a fine painted window and sundry old carvings and monumental brasses which were the delight of my good old tutor when he visited us. But as to the parson, the less said the better. He is no credit to the place that he fills."

"That must be a grief to you," I remarked.

"It is, indeed, and I would matters were otherwise, but at present I can do nothing save wait and pray."

I never saw a young man like Mr. Studley—I mean one whose religion seemed so a part of himself. He never parades it any more than he does his travels or his music, but, when he has occasion to speak thereof, it is with no more hesitation or embarrassment than he would speak of being in Rome.

_April 10._

The day is near at hand, and all the preparations are finished, for which I am glad. I have been so out of patience with the foolish finery at times, I have felt an insane longing to tear it to pieces or burn it up. If Mr. Studley were as foolishly fond as some men are in the like circumstances, I believe I should quarrel with him, but that is not his way. Only at times I catch his eyes fixed on me with a look that goes to my heart, and makes me feel like weeping.

Such a look from Mr. Morley would have made me happy for a week, but, try as I will, I can't feel the love for him that I did for that unworthy man. I am glad he is out of my way, where I am not like to see him. I wonder if he is married. To think of a man selling himself in that way! But Betty says Lord Chesterton told her that Mr. Morley is a gamester and loaded with debt. I fancy he is much mistaken if he thinks my lady will pay them for him. I do hope at least he will have the honesty to tell her of them.

I am not going to write in my journal any more, that is, more than to set down the day's events, perhaps. I can't quite make up my mind to destroy these two volumes which have been such a comfort to me, but I shall seal them up and put them away. I will not write any thing that I cannot show to my husband, for I am resolved I will have no secrets from him.

If I could but love him as I loved that other! If I had only seen him first! If only something would not keep whispering his name to me, and suggesting—But there, I won't write it.

I am resolved that I will do my best to be a good wife to Mr. Studley, and a dutiful daughter to his old father, who, from what I hear, is like enough to be somewhat of a trial. It may be that in time something like love will come to me. I think my aunt suspects the state of my heart, for she discoursed largely last night of the nature of true affection, and how much better foundation for happiness were respect and esteem than the blind passion commonly called love. I wonder if she thought so when she married Mr. Foster. From what I have learned about him from Dr. Burnett and Dr. Burgoin, he and my aunt could not have been very congenial spirits, yet Dr. Burnett says it was altogether a love match.

Ah, well, the die is cast! The sacrifice is made, and there is no receding. Since I must needs be married, I am glad my aunt's choice has fallen upon such a worthy man, whom, as I have said to myself over and over again, I can respect and admire, if I do not love him.

THE THIRD BOOK.

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