BOOK III.

_Studley Hall, 1687._

WHEN I was looking over my things in preparation for removing from the farm to this house, I opened a trunk mail in which I had stored away a quantity of finery unsuitable to a farmer's wife. Turning over the things, my hand fell upon a square sealed package, of which I could not remember the contents. Breaking the seals, I found my two old journal books, which used to stand me in stead of confidential friends and father confessor. I fell to looking them over, and Mr. Studley coming in at the moment, I read him the last pages I wrote. He laughed, and kissed me, saying, "All's well that ends well."

"Perhaps so," I answered; "but, Ned, I can see now what a wrong I did you, and what a sin I committed, in wedding you as I did, promising so solemnly to love, honor, and obey, when my heart was not in the matter."

"Ah, well, you have been a fairly dutiful and obedient wife, save when you will go out in the wet to hunt up your missing fowls," said Mr. Studley; "and as to love, I think there is a little between us, Dolly." Then he added more gravely: "In truth, dear wife, if there was any blame, it attached more to me than to you. I was not so blinded by my love but that I could see how you felt toward me. You would hardly have walked down as far as the red gate to meet your bridegroom coming to woo, even in the finest weather, as you did yesterday in the rain to meet your stupid, humdrum old goodman coming from market, you foolish woman!"

"I wanted to see if you had forgotten my knitting-pins," said I, pretending to pout.

"And so send me back for them. No doubt I should have gone, like an obedient, hen-pecked husband, as I am; only you forgot to ask for them at all, and here they are in my pocket. But indeed, Dolly, I was to blame. I knew your heart was not in the match, but it seemed to my self-will as if I could not live without you, and I was vain enough to believe I could win your regard if I had a fair chance."

"How conceited some men are!" I said.

"But, Dolly, since you are like, or so I hope, to have a little more leisure, with our mended fortunes, why should you not continue your chronicle down to the present time?" continued my husband. "It will be a pleasant pastime, and our daughter will like to read them when she is a sober house-dame like thyself."

"It seems odd to think that mite of a creature should ever be a sober, married woman," said I, regarding my three months old Barbara asleep in her cot, "but I suppose we were all like that once. I hope she may have as good a fortune as her mother before her. Only I would not have her left as I was, for the lot of an orphan maid is too often a sad one. But then, as you say, 'all's well that ends well.'"

Mrs. Williams, coming in for some directions about the new cheeses, put an end to the talk for that time, but my husband adverted to it more than once afterward. And as we are now quite settled in our new home, and we have the house well cleaned, which it greatly needed, and every thing is going on well, I know no reason why I should not content him. He has gone to Plymouth for a week to see about some property there, and I have a mind to surprise him when he comes home.

To begin with the wedding. It went off as such things usually do, I suppose. Betty was bridesmaid, and I am sure a soberer one was never seen. I don't think I was a very sober bride. Somehow, just at the last, a reckless spirit took possession of me. Dr. Burnett had been to the Bath again, and had brought news that Mr. Morley was actually married to his ancient bride: she is sixty-five at the very least. When I heard that, as I said before, a spirit of recklessness took possession of me. I was determined to show that I did not care: so I talked and laughed, entered with zeal into all the preparations for the festivities, and feigned the greatest interest in my wedding array. I saw Mr. Studley look at me with wondering eyes more than once. I suppose he must have said something to my aunt, for I heard her tell him that young maids' spirits were always variable at such times.

The wedding-day is much like a dream to me. We were married at the parish church; and almost the only clear remembrance I have is the face of old Dame Penberthy, as she pressed a bunch of blue and white violets into my hand at the church door.

We had no very great wedding festivities, for the absence of which, my aunt's mourning was a sufficient excuse. Our only guests were the bishop's family, who are my aunt's relations, a few of our nearest neighbors, and Mr. and Mrs. Lightfoot. Mr. Lightfoot had sought Mr. Studley's company since that evening at Fullham which I have recorded, and by his persuasion had left off cards and dice, and given himself to retrieving his encumbered estate. Mrs. Lightfoot looked upon my husband almost as an angel, as well, indeed, she might, poor little woman!

The next day after my marriage was lovely, and my husband asked me to walk out in the park with him. All my high spirits had evaporated by that time, and a kind of impatient misery had succeeded to it. I felt as if I could not endure any thing. I bent down to gather a primrose, and as I did so I scratched my hand with a thistle, and in my vexation I gave vent to an oath,—a modish oath, such as half the fine ladies in London used without ever giving it a thought. I had caught up the habit there, and had been trying to break myself of it, but I think such a habit one of the hardest in the world to conquer. I was brought to myself by my husband's look of almost horrified surprise.

"Dolly!" said he, and the tone spoke volumes.

I felt the blood come up in my cheeks, but I tried to carry it off lightly.

"I did not mean any thing," said I; "it was only a trick I picked up in London. Everybody there uses such words."

"If the whole world used them, I could not be reconciled to hearing them from the lips of my dear wife," said Mr. Studley. "See you not, my love, that it is this very light use of the word which the Commandment forbids,—the taking the holy name in vain, or lightly?"

"I suppose so," I answered. "The truth is, Mr. Studley, I am not one bit religious. I was once, I believe; at least, when I was confirmed I made many good resolutions, and did love to read in the Bible and to go to church. But afterwards, somehow, it all became dim and unreal to me. I did not go to church, and the books I read to my mistress were only tasks to me; and since—" I stopped, horrified at the words which came to my lips.

"Since when, my dear?" asked my husband gently. "Canst thou not open thy heart to thy husband, my Dorothy?"

Now, I had resolved that the name of Philip Morley should nevermore pass my lips, that Mr. Studley should never know what he had been to me. While I was fully resolved to have no secrets from my husband, as soon as he became so, it seemed to me that my single life was mine own.

But I know not what possessed me; whether I had endured as long as endurance was possible, or whether the kindness of his manner broke down my reserve, as ice is melted by the warm south winds: I began at the beginning, and told him the whole story of my life,—how Mr. Harpe had cheated me, and my mistress abused me; how I saw Mr. Morley first, and all about my acquaintance with him, even to those clandestine meetings in the park, which I can never think of without shame and anger.

"And I can't be religious: how can I?" I concluded. "How can I think Heaven has been good to me, or that any one there loves me, when I have been so thwarted and shamed and tossed about? I might as well think that God cared for one of those withered weeds, or a bit of tangle on the shore."

I stopped, rather scared at my own desperate words. Mr. Studley had been standing before me, as I sat on a rustic bench in the shade of a thicket. To my surprise, he turned from me, and walked away without a word, disappearing among the trees.

What would I not have given to recall what I had said? I had thrown away my husband's love and respect; and, now they were gone, it seemed that I would give worlds to have them back again. I seemed all at once to realize all I felt for him. What would he do? Would he ever speak to me again? Would he leave me altogether, and go away? What would my friends say if he did, and where should I hide my disgraced head when they knew all?

Tears came to my eyes at last, but they were hot, burning tears, and gave me no relief. I covered my face with my hands, and was sitting in a kind of heavy, listless despair, when all at once my head was drawn to a warm, strong resting-place, and a kind hand wiped my tears. Not a word was spoken till I looked up, and said, in a voice that was hardly articulate,—

"I thought you had gone and left me."

"No, indeed; you do not get rid of me so easily," replied my husband. "I ought not to have left you alone so long, but I confess I had need of a little solitude to compose my spirits."

"Then you don't hate me?"

"Not quite yet. It would be a strange love, methinks, which would be alienated by such openness as yours, my Dolly. I own that for a moment I was shocked and startled by what you told me. But I do not believe you love this man."

"No, indeed," I answered, with energy. "It is a wonder to me how I could ever care for him."

"It is no great wonder, under the circumstances. But, Dolly, you say that you cannot love God because he hath dealt so hardly with you. Was it hard dealing with you not to leave you to reap the harvest of your own self-will and indiscretion?"

"No, perhaps not. But why did he take my mother from me, and leave me a forlorn orphan maid, with no one to guide me?"

"That I cannot tell you. It belongs to the great unsolvable riddle,—the existence of evil at all. But, Dolly, is it quite true that he left you with no one to guide you? You say that both Mrs. Williams and your friend Mrs. Andrews warned you. And was there not something within which confirmed their warnings?"

"It is true," I answered. "I knew all the time I was doing wrong."

"Exactly. You see your Father did not leave you alone, after all."

"I wish I could feel that he were my Father indeed," said I. "I would I could love him as you do. I have tried, but I cannot."

"That is because you have not tried in the right way, my dear one," answered my husband. "You could not love him while you thought him your foe. 'We love him because he first loved us.'" And with that he began and drew a picture of the love of God, and the work of the Holy Trinity in our redemption, so tender, so moving, supporting all he said by the words of Scripture, as I never heard the like from any preacher.

I wept abundantly, but my tears were cool and refreshing, and seemed to overflow and carry away all remains of that spring of bitterness in my heart which had been poisoning my life.

"But you make my case worse and worse, Edward," said I. (I don't think I had ever called him by his name before.) "If I have been sinning all my life against such love as this you describe, and which I must needs believe in, how can I ever be forgiven? What remains for such a sinner?"

"Eternal life, if the sinner will but take the free gift held out to her," answered my husband. "Do you not see, Dolly, that the fact of your being a sinner, is in one way your title to salvation?"

"I don't understand," said I. "Must one not be good to be saved?"

"Yes and no. You put the cart before the horse, as we say in these parts. You are not to be saved because you are good, but you are to be good because you are saved. If you could work out your salvation, then were our Lord's work useless. But he came into the world to save sinners. You are a sinner; 'ergo,' he came into the world to save you. Does not that make it plain?"

We talked a long time. He showed me at last, plainly, both by the Bible and Prayer-Book, that I had only to believe that the Lord had died for me, and to put my trust in him, in order to reap all the benefits of his passion. He showed me how all the services and sacraments pointed the same way, and served to the same end,—that God's children were to perfect holiness in his fear, because they were his children by creation, by adoption at our baptism, and at last by our own act and deed consenting thereto.

I cannot write all that he said. I know from that hour life was a new thing to me.

"But we must not sit here too long: the air is growing chill," said he. "Your aunt will chide me if you get the ague from my carelessness."

"It will be an ague well bought," said I. And then, a little mischievously, "Then you won't quite give up your wayward little wife, though she has been such a naughty girl?"

His only answer was a kiss, which for the very first time I returned. From that hour I began to love my husband; and that love has grown, and will grow while life remains.

We went round by the spring, and I stopped to bathe my eyes, which were swollen with weeping. Nevertheless, my aunt saw the traces of my tears, and followed me to my room, saying with some anxiety,—

"I hope nothing has gone wrong, my love."

"No, dear aunt, the farthest possible from wrong," I answered; "only I have been holding a long talk with my husband. I think we understand each other better than ever before."

"That is well," said my aunt, evidently relieved. (I think she had had her misgivings all along.) "I must say one thing for you, Dolly, you are the most candid young person I have ever met. I feel that I know more of you than I do of mine own daughter."

I do think she did. But if I had grown-up under my aunt's system, should I have been more open with her than Betty is? I doubt it. I know one thing, I will always encourage my Barbara to open her heart to her mother. How can a child be frank, a child at least who thinks for herself, who is repressed and set down, and even severely reproved for speaking out her thoughts when they happen to differ from her elders. I remember how even Meg was chidden and punished because she said she thought it not right for women to play indecent parts upon the stage. But this is by the way.

I asked my aunt to excuse me from going to supper, not feeling in the mood to meet my uncle's jokes, which were not the most refined. My aunt kindly consented, and said she would send Mary with my tray, but Mr. Studley, hearing of the matter, would bring it up himself, and even feed me.

We got frolicking over it like two silly children, but, indeed, my heart felt so light I was ready for any thing. Then Mr. Studley brought out a new piece of music he had bought for me at Exeter—an evening hymn, by the good Bishop of Bath and Wells, set to a fine canon of Tanis's—and we sang it together. We went down to prayers. And I think my aunt, and even Betty, were satisfied with my looks.

The next day, when we were alone together, Betty said to me in her blunt way,—

"What has come over you, Dolly? You look as though you had seen some joyful sight."

"And so I have," I answered her; and I told her a little of the talk I had held with my husband.

"You have a right to be happy," said she, and she sighed. "Dolly, you don't know how I dread this visit to London. I know just how it will be. All the visiting and play-going and vanity will begin over again, and I cannot join in it. I dare not do so, thinking as I do. I shall have to run counter to my mother in every thing, and what will become of me?"

"Now you are borrowing trouble," said I. "If I were you, I would lay my trouble before the bishop,—you know his lordship is always very kind to you,—and ask his advice."

"I have," answered Betty, "and much good it did."

"Why, what did he say?"

"He said that while I was under my mother, it was my duty to obey her in all things which did not go against my conscience; and that I must be careful not to make a confusion between my conscience and my taste, not to think things must be wrong because I did not like them."

"Well, I am sure that was good," I remarked; "and what then?"

"Then he patted my head, and gave me his blessing and a book of his friend Bishop Wilson's, and bade me remember that even in Vanity Fair Christiana found some good people, and that, at any rate, 'sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.'"

I don't see how he could have given Betty any better advice, but I could see she was not satisfied. And, indeed, my good aunt's theory and practice were hard to reconcile. She gave us books to read which taught us that this world was nought, and then would have us live as if it were all. I could not but wonder that the bishop should quote such a book as the "Pilgrim's Progress," but then he reads every book that comes in his way. I dare say he might pick it up at a stall, where he is always hunting for curiosities in that line.

The next day but one my husband and myself set out for our new home. We were to go by sea from Exmouth to Biddeford, where we would be met by my father-in-law's horses and servants. I had never been on the water in my life, and was scared at the idea, though I would not have said so for the world, but my husband and my uncle both thought it would be easier for me than the rough land journey over the moors, by roads which are not too safe at any time, and which have been much worse since the troubles last year drove so many desperate men to take refuge in those wilds and almost inaccessible morasses.

However, I must say I found the voyage very pleasant. The vessel, though small, was clean and well found; and the captain and sailors, who knew my husband well, were civil and attentive. I was sick hardly at all, and there was so much of novelty to engage my attention that the time seemed not long to me.

We landed safely one pleasant morning at Biddeford, which is a quaint little town, once of considerable importance, but a good deal decayed. We went at once to the principal inn, where we ordered some refreshment, as it was nearly noon. While we were eating and drinking, the landlord came to say that a man desired speech of my husband. And presently, he brought him up,—an elderly, steady man, the very model of an old-fashioned serving-man.

"Welcome, Andrew!" said my husband. "You see I have brought my wife."

The old man bowed, and drank my health in a cup of ale, which, at my husband's sign, I poured out and gave him.

"And what is the news from home?" asked my husband. "I suppose the timbered house is all ready for us."

"Why, no, Master Edward, it be'n't," said the old man rather reluctantly. "Your father has altered his mind about it, and you and the young mistress are to come to Studley Hall. I only hope you will like the company you find there."

"What do you mean, Andrew?" asked my husband.

And, as Andrew hesitated, he added, with more impatience than is his wont, "Speak out, man, and tell us the truth, whatever it is. Bad news does not mend by keeping."

"And that's true, Master Ned," said the serving-man. "Well, then, here it is. My master hath taken Mr. Kirton and his sister to live with him; and she rules the household within, and he without."

My husband turned ashy pale, and his eyes shot fire as he asked, in a tone not the least like his own,—

"Is he married to her?"

"He says so, and certainly he ought to be," answered Andrew reluctantly, "but no one knows where the wedding was done, nor who married them. Anyhow, my lady rules with a high hand, and most of the old servants have left."

"When was this done?" asked my husband, in the same hard, constrained voice.

"About three weeks ago," answered Andrew. "My master laughed when he told us, and said he would steal a march on Master Milksop. But I had best go and see to the horses," added the good old man, guessing, I suppose, that we would rather be alone together. "I shall be below the window in the court, mistress, if you will but make a sign when I am wanted."

With these words he withdrew, shutting the door behind him. My husband walked up and down the room two or three times; and then dropping into a chair, and laying his head on his folded arms, he fairly burst into tears, and sobbed like a babe.

I soothed him as well as I could. I was scared, for there was something terrible in the grief of one usually so self-restrained. When I saw him growing quiet, I ventured to ask,—

"What has happened, Edward? Who are these people?"

"The woman is such an one as I would not have you even name," said he. "The man is a physician,—at least so he calls himself, and he hath some skill that way. He helped my father in a fit of gout in the stomach, and hath crept into his confidence more and more, though I believe him as unworthy of trust as a man can be. I have feared at times that my father was taken with the woman, who is very handsome, in a way, but I never thought to see her in the place of my mother, a saint if one ever lived on earth. O Dolly, to think I should have brought you to this!"

And again he gave way to his grief, though but for a few moments. Then composing himself,—

"The question is, what to do?"

"Will you not read your father's letter?" I asked, handing him the letter which old Andrew had given me. "That may throw some light on the subject."

The letter was kind enough, though somewhat needlessly blustering; saying that we would be welcome to his house, provided that we would treat his wife with respect, and that his son was prepared to behave like a man.

"Ay, I know what that means," said my husband. "Well, what shall we do, Dolly?"

"In my judgment we had better take up with the invitation," I answered, trying to speak cheerfully, though I was dreadfully disappointed. I had built so much on going to my own house. "This person is your father's wife, it seems; and as such we must treat her with respect, as he says. If we find we cannot live there, it will be time to think what to do next."

"But I know not what that will be," said my husband. "My father promised to allow me a house and land, and four hundred pounds a year; and if he sees fit to quarrel with me, as I make no doubt he will, if Kirton can bring it about, we shall be left destitute."

"Then you shall take your violin, and I will take my lute, and we will go sing at fairs and weddings, till we win money enough to rent a cottage at Biddeford, or somewhere else, where you shall be parish-clerk, and I will knit hose, and spin fine thread," said I. "In truth, dear Edward, we are wrong to borrow trouble. We are both young and strong,—not made of sugar nor salt, to be washed away in the first shower of adversity."

"I don't know. I think you have a good deal of both in your composition, Dolly," said my husband.

"Of course I have," I answered, overjoyed to see him smile again. "Don't you know that little girls are made of—

"'Sugar and spice, and all that's nice'?"

"I know one little girl that is, at all events," he answered. "Dolly, what have I done to deserve such a good wife?"

"Why, nothing," I answered demurely. "Have not you yourself taught me that we don't get good things because we deserve them?"

"And you think we had better go on to my father's?"

"Truly, I do."

"And what is to become of our fine castle in the air?" he asked, smiling sorrowfully.

"It is in the air still," I answered, "but it may yet descend to earth, and rest on a solid foundation. And if we cannot have our castle, why we will be content with a cottage, as I said."

We talked matters over by ourselves and with old Andrew, whom we called into our counsels. I could see that the old man was very doubtful about our reception. Afterward, Edward having gone out in the town about some business, Andrew told me privately that he believed both Mr. Kirton and his sister had done their best to prejudice old Mr. Studley against his son, which he added was needless, as Mr. Ned had never been a favorite with his father. It seems there was a younger brother of a very different disposition from Edward, and much more congenial to his father, who was killed at sixteen by a fall from his horse.

"It was no fault of Master Ned's," continued Andrew. "Indeed, he did his best to persuade poor Walty from going out. My master had taught him to drink deeply already, and he was in no state to manage a fiery horse, but his father cheered him on, and they both laughed at Ned for a milksop and a coward. But the horse was enraged with the whip and spur, which Walty plied mercilessly: he reared and threw him off, and his brains were dashed out against the wall of the court."

"How very sad! But Edward was not to blame for that."

"No, my pretty—I mean my young mistress," said the old man, catching himself up, "but it was visited on him, for all that. Then Master Ned took up with strict notions about religion, and that angered his father still more. The old master did every thing to drive them out,—from sending him to travel abroad, to putting him to work in the stable."

"Surely, he never did that," said I.

"Indeed he did, mistress. Many 's the time I have seen Master Ned in his frock, rubbing down the horses as cheerfully as you please. Afterward, he sent him abroad with my young Lord Stanton, and then put him to govern my Lady Clarenham's household, thinking because she was a great court lady, Mr. Ned would get over his strict notions with her."

"It was not a very good choice, if that was what his father desired," said I. "My Lady Clarenham, though a court lady, as you say, was strict enough in her own notions."

"So I have heard, madam. But when Mr. Studley found that out, he took his son away again. Then he tried another way, and made him his own bailiff, and I would he were so again," said the old man, sighing. "But I doubt all that is over. Kirton rules every thing on the place. It is owing to him and his sister, I do believe, that my master changed his mind about the Timber House."

"But I can't understand that," said I. "I should think these people would rather have the house to themselves."

"They mean to have the house to themselves," answered Andrew with a meaning look. "And if you take my advice, young madam, you will leave the most of your things here in safe keeping, and not carry them to Studley Hall, till you see how the land lies."

"What is that you say?" asked my husband, entering at the moment.

Andrew repeated his words.

"Your counsel is good," said Mr. Studley. "I think, Dolly, we will leave most of our baggage in the hands of my good friend, Mr. Gifford the merchant."

"Very well," I answered. "I have all I shall need at present in the small mail that was brought thither."

"But we must be riding, my love," said my husband. "Andrew, will you see the horses ready?"

We came in sight of Studley Court just as the sun was setting, and I never saw a lovelier scene. The old red brick house, shaded by great nut-trees, was, as it were, nestled into a valley, or glen, opening to the south-west toward the sea. A clear, prattling stream crossed the garden not very far from the house, and fell in a succession of still pools and tinkling cascades toward the shore. The garden showed careful cultivation in times past, though some large weeds and many small ones gave tokens of recent neglect. I saw my husband shake his head when he looked at it. He is very fond of a garden.

The whole place was bathed in warm, soft sunshine. The sea, at high water, was making a gentle roar on the shore below, and the birds were singing softly in the trees. It looked the very abode of peace. As we rode into the courtyard, my father-in-law appeared on the steps. He was a very handsome, stately old man, but I did not like his face, which showed traces of hard living and of a violent temper. Perhaps I may have imagined a little, knowing what I did of him beforehand. He welcomed me with sufficient courtesy, and his son hardly with civility, I thought.

"Well, Master Ned, I have stolen a march on you," he said bluntly, yet with a kind of swagger, I thought, as if he were somewhat ashamed of what he had to tell, but meant to carry it off with a high hand.

"So I hear, sir," answered my husband. "I wish you and your wife all happiness."

"Humph!" answered the old gentleman, somewhat disconcerted, as it seemed. "Mind, sir, you are to treat my wife with respect. I will have no airs from you or your wife either.—Do you hear, mistress?"

I curtsied without answering. My former experiences had taught me that "mum chance is a safe game," as Sharpless used to say.

"Humph! We mean to be discreet, I see," muttered the old gentleman. Then aloud, "Well, well, you are a pretty creature, and look as if you lacked not spirit, little as you are. Hast thou not a kiss for thy old dad, child?"

"That I am sure she has, sir," answered Edward promptly. "I have brought you a loving and dutiful daughter, father, who I hope and believe will be a comfort to you."

My father-in-law seemed to soften at these words. He gave Edward his hand, which he had not done before, bade one of the serving-men carry up our mails, and asked, in some surprise, if that were all.

"We left a part of our effects with Mr. Gifford, in Biddeford, sir," answered Ned. "We did not care to scare you with too much at once."

"Well, well, 'twas not ill-considered," said my father-in-law, giving me his hand to lead me in; for we had stood all this while at the door, and I had begun to wonder whether we were to be allowed to enter at all.

He conducted me to a pretty, old-fashioned parlor, where sat his wife.

How shall I describe her? She was a large woman, and very handsome in a way, with regular, aquiline features, bold, round black eyes, very wide open, and abundance of dark hair growing well back from a rounded forehead, and a red and white complexion which I thought might owe something to the rouge-pot. She rose as we entered, and treated us to a broad stare and a swimming courtesy. It seemed to me that I had seen her before, but I could not tell where.

"This is my son Edward, Rebecca, and this is his bride.—What am I to call you, child?"

"Dorothy, if you please, father," I answered, "or Dolly, if you like it better."

I got a look from my husband which rewarded me for all the pains the words cost me. The old gentleman also looked well-pleased, but I can't say as much for Mrs. Studley. I felt from the first moment as if she were an enemy, as if I were in the presence of some fierce and treacherous animal.

"You are welcome, Mrs. Edward Studley," she said stiffly enough. And then, turning to her husband, "I suppose the young lady will like to go to her room before supper, which will be ready directly."

I answered that I should be glad to do so.

"The blue room, Ned. You need no one to show you the way," said his father.

Accordingly my husband led me up-stairs, and along a gallery to a tolerably comfortable chamber, not in the best order, where a decent-looking old body was somewhat hurriedly laying clean towels and the like. She dropped whatever she had in her hand as we came in, and burst out crying, saying in her broad Devon dialect, "O Master Ned, Master Ned, what a home-coming is here! What a home-coming is here for you, my lamb!"

"Hush, hush, Janey!" said my husband, shaking hands with her. "Do you greet my bride with tears? That is not a good omen.—Dolly, this is my old nurse and friend.—Come, Janey, shake hands, and wish her joy."

"And so I do with all my heart, the dear, tender, little lamb, and God bless her into the bargain! But what a house is this to bring a young lady into!"

"It is indeed a very different house from what I expected," said my husband, "but we must make the best, Janey."

"Best! There is no best, with that witch and wizard who have cast their spells on my poor old master!" said Janey. And then in a lower, awestruck tone, "You need not tell me they are right Christian folk. No, not they!"

"Hush, Janey, I cannot hear you speak so of my father's wife," said Edward; "that is not right. Come, help your young mistress to take off her riding gear, and get ready for supper."

"Ay, that will I," said the old woman.

She performed her office deftly enough, with abundance of "poor dears" and "tender lambs," and such like phrases.

When we were about to leave the room, she laid a trembling, withered hand on my husband's arm,—

"Don't let her get a hold on thee, don't, now, Master Neddy," she whispered. "I tell 'e she bain't right. There's them has seen mun in other forms than mun wears now, and in strange places. And it bain't for nought that the white owl has whooped and screamed every night since she came hither. No, no, the white owl doesn't screech like that for nought, though you make light o' mun, Master Neddy. But oh, have a care! I have put a branch of rowan over your bed, and a four-leaved clover under every threshold, so she can work no harm here. But oh, have a care, my lambs, and be sure to taste bread and salt the first thing!"

I must confess I was silly enough to observe this precaution against witchcraft, when we sat down to supper. At the table we were introduced to Dr. Kirton, a cunning, plausible sort of man, who was rather obtrusively civil in his manners, and to whom I took a huge dislike on the instant.

My husband had brought his father some fine tobacco, and a pretty box full of snuff. The old gentleman received them with satisfaction, and seemed inclined to be more friendly than at first; asking Ned about one old acquaintance and another, and telling him about the cattle and horses, especially a fine blood mare he had bought for my riding. Then turning to me, he asked me if I were a good horsewoman.

"Only passable, sir," I answered. "I never rode at all till last winter, but my uncle has taken great pains to teach me, and, if you will do the same, I hope you will find me an apt scholar."

"Indeed, sir, Dolly is a very good horsewoman, considering," said Edward. "She is very fearless, and that is half the battle, you know."

"So it is, so it is," replied the old gentleman. "But how happened it that you never learned before last winter, chick?"

"Because I never had a chance, sir," I answered. "I have been in my uncle's family not quite a year. Before that I lived in London. We only came down to Devon about Christmas-tide."

"In London, eh? I did not think I was to have a fine London lady for a daughter, but you don't look like a Londoner! Eh, Rebecca?" addressing the lady at the head of the table, who had stiffened more and more, the more her husband relaxed.

"I know nothing of the matter," she answered tartly. "I never was in London in my life, and never wish to be."

"If I have not seen you there, I am as much mistaken as ever I was," I said to myself. The more I looked at her, the more sure I was that I had seen her before.

"Well, well! I should have taken you for Devon born, and North Devon at that," said my father-in-law. "Who is she so like, Rowson?"

The remark was addressed to the vicar of the parish,—a heavy, good-natured looking man, who had come in after we sat down, and been introduced as Mr. Rowson. He looked, I must say, any thing but a reverend priest, and yet I took a certain liking to him from the first.

"Mrs. Edward Studley is very much like the Corbet family," answered the vicar, with a polite little bow. "I should almost say she belonged to them."

"I suppose I do," I answered. "My father's name was Corbet, and he and my mother were somewhat akin. After my mother's death, I lived in the family of Sir Charles Corbet, my father's cousin."

"Ay, I remember now," said Mr. Studley. "But Sir Charles died some years ago, did he not?"

"Yes, sir. After his death I remained with his widow, till my aunt found me out and adopted me."

"Well, well! Thou art a pretty bird, but of the least."

"'Good gear goes in little bulk,' I have heard say, sir," I answered, whereat he laughed and seemed pleased.

But the more pleased he appeared, the blacker grew my lady's brow. She was evidently jealous already. When supper was over, my husband asked to be excused, saying that he had a headache.

"Ay, I know of old there is no good-fellowship to be had of thee," said his father grumblingly; and then, more gently, "But thou art a young bridegroom, and would rather toy with thy pretty pussy than drink the best wine that ever flowed. Go along, then."

He actually rose to open the door for me, when his lady pushed past me and left the room first. It was certainly a very discourteous action for a lady in her own house, and I saw my husband's face flush at it, but I did not care. I did not believe I should long have to live with her.

We stopped a moment at the hall-door, while Edward pointed out to me some object in the landscape; and when we reached the parlor it was empty. There was a pretty harpsichon in the room, which Edward opened and invited me to try.

"It was my mother's instrument, and for her sake I have kept it in tune," said he. "She was a great lover of music, and a good performer."

"It is from her that you get your music," I remarked.

"It is from her that I get any good which is in me," replied my husband, with a sigh. "I believe I first liked you because something in your looks reminded me of her. And to see that—"

"Patience," said I, as he checked himself; "patience is our only game just now, Edward."

"You are right," he answered. "Play something, and soothe my spirits, Dolly."

"'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,'" said I, as I sat down. "And you are not savage, only disturbed and distressed, and no wonder. Now, take that arm-chair, and listen and compose your spirits."

I played one or two lessons, and then began to sing Mr. Shakspeare's Song of the Lark, which was always a great favorite of mine. When I had finished, I was rewarded by a clapping of hands; and, turning round, I saw my father-in-law and the chaplain, who had come in so quietly I had not known of their presence.

"Well done," said my father-in-law. "Why, you are a lark yourself. We don't hear singing like that every day, eh, Rowson?"

"I have not heard the like since I was in Italy," answered the chaplain. "Will not the young lady sing something else?"

I obeyed, and sang two or three songs, to the last of which Mr. Rowson volunteered a bass. He had a fine voice, though somewhat the worse for wine, and a cultivated manner. When we had finished, he said, with real feeling and courtesy,—

"This is a pleasure indeed. I did not expect such a feast."

"Ay, Rowson is like any other donkey, he likes his ears tickled," said Mr. Studley, laughing. "You will hear good singing in his church, if not much else. But, indeed, you have given us all pleasure,—eh, my dear?" turning to his wife, who only tossed her head, and said something about not being a judge.

I concluded I had done enough, and rose from the instrument. I supposed we should have prayers, as the chaplain was present, but no such thing took place.

When we had retired to our room, I found I had dropped my handkerchief, and ran down to look for it. I paused, however, at the parlor door, hearing voices within; and while I was hesitating I caught the words,—

"Making herself at home—a London fine lady to look down on me, and insult me with her airs.'

"Tut, tut! I saw no airs, nor insults either," said my father-in-law. "Don't be a goose, Becky."

"Becky!" I exclaimed aloud. It all came to me in a minute.

"Eh, what's that?" said my father-in-law, opening wide the door, which was already ajar. "What do you want, child, and who are you calling 'Becky?'"

"Nobody, sir," I answered. "I heard the name, and was struck with it, as I never heard it but once before."

"And where was that?" asked he, rather sharply.

"In London, sir," I answered.

And then, to divert him, I asked if he had seen my handkerchief.

He began to look for it, while my lady stood by, regarding us with no friendly glances.

"Here it is," said I, unearthing it from a pile of music-books. "Thank you, father, and good-night."

"The riddle is read," said I, as I rejoined my husband. "I knew I had seen her before."

"Where?" asked Edward.

"At the theatre in London," I answered. "I have seen her twenty times. It is Becky Marshall the actress,—the one poor Mr. Baxter tried in vain to rescue. She had a sister younger than herself, both well brought up, but I never heard of any brother. But if she is not Becky Marshall, I will eat her."

"I would not like you to do that," said my husband, who is always taking me up about what he calls my intemperate ejaculations. "She might not agree with you. But are you sure, Dolly?"

"As sure as I am of you," I answered. "I have often seen her, for my aunt was a great play-goer, and always took one of us with her. I heard this woman had left the stage."

"Well, well; we can do nothing now, that I see," said my husband. "To think, Dolly, that I, of all people, should have brought you into such associations!"

"You could not help it, seeing you knew nothing of them," I answered. "But where did your father meet these people?"

"At Bristol, whither he went to drink the waters of St. Vincent's well. There he was taken very ill; and Kirton cured him, or so he thought. He has known the brother for a year, but it is only a few weeks since he met the sister. I saw Gifford was full of stories about her, but, with all his good qualities, he is a bit of a scandal-monger, and I gave him no encouragement. But come, Dolly, let us take our reading and prayers, and go to rest. To-morrow is a new day, and may bring better counsel. I shall try to prevail on my father to go back to the first plan, and let us have the timbered house. If not, we must see what else we can do, for I will not have you living with this woman."

The next day was Saturday. Janey had not failed to remark on the fact that we had arrived on a Friday, as boding ill luck. My father-in law was evidently in a worse humor than the night before; and as to my lady, she hardly troubled herself to be civil. We did not meet till dinner-time, when Mr. Studley grumbled over the pie, and scolded because the beef was overroasted, saying he had not put a decent morsel into his mouth since the new cook had come. My lady promised to see to the cooking herself, and seemed trying to conciliate her husband, while she was any thing but polite to Edward or me.

"And you, child, I suppose you don't know the neck of a goose from the rump," said my father-in-law, turning to me.

"Of course not," said his wife. "Fine London ladies don't study cooking."

"But I am not a fine London lady, madam; and, as it happens, I am a bit of a cook," said I, willing for my husband's sake to conciliate her. "My mother and my aunt both thought the government of a household a very important part of a young lady's education."

"And they were right," said my father-in-law, with an oath. "What matters it what else a woman knows if she can't make her husband comfortable?"

Nobody made any answer to this question, and the meal went on. After dinner, Mr. Studley announced his intention of riding to look at some outlying land.

"I will ride with you if you will permit me, sir," said Edward.

"What! And leave your bride alone a whole afternoon. You are not weary of her already, are you?"

"Hardly, sir," answered Edward, smiling; "and I do not mean she should weary of me, as I fear she would if I were tied to her apron-string."

"Humph! Well, then, if you are suffering for exercise, I wish you would go over and see Master Atkins. Tell him I will let him have the two heifers at his own price, if he will come for them. The land hath more stock than it can carry. Tell Tom to put the side-saddle on the black mare, and carry your wife with you."

It was evidently an excuse for putting off, or getting rid of, a private interview. My husband looked disappointed, but made the best of the matter.

"Would you like to go, Dolly?" he asked. "It is a pleasant ride; and the old folk are friends of mine, and will be glad to see you."

I professed my willingness, and we were soon on our way. The day was lovely, with a fresh breeze blowing, and sending the white-caps into the little bay, and the larks were singing over head. I should have enjoyed the ride beyond any thing, only that my husband was so sad and distraught.

"Eh,—what?" said he, after I had spoken to him twice without getting any reply. "I beg your pardon, Dolly. I am very bad company, I know, but I am so troubled and perplexed I know not what to do, nor which way to turn."

"And therefore you cannot turn any way," I answered. "You must just wait till the fog lifts, and shows you your road."

"And meantime the boat may drift on the breakers, or the traveller be mired in the bog," said he.

"Not if the boat be anchored, and the traveller sit still," I answered. "Where is your faith, Edward? Have you not taught me that God is our Father, and that he will make all things work together for good to them that love him? Can we not trust ourselves in his hands?"

"You are right, and I am wrong, my dear," said my husband. "I fear I am very faithless."

"No, you are not faithless any more than Abraham was," I answered. "You are failing in your strong point just as he did. Don't you know that fortresses are almost always taken on their strong side? Only don't make Abraham's mistake by taking matters into your own hands. You know the trouble he prepared for himself by that step,—because he could not wait for God to bestow the blessing he had promised."

"I don't know that I ever thought of it in just that way, but I believe you are right," said Edward. "You have read your Old Testament to purpose, Dolly."

"It is one of the few things I have to thank my old mistress for," I answered. "She made me read it from end to end every year. Is this the farm where we are to stop?"

"Yes. They will make you very welcome, Dolly, and they are good people too."

We found the dame busy with her knitting in the sunny porch of the old timbered house, and received such a hearty welcome that we were almost overwhelmed with it. A rosy-faced old man took our horses, and an equally rosy-faced lad was sent to find Master Atkins; while the dame conducted us into her clean, wide kitchen, where a little wood fire still smouldered on the hearth. Here we must eat and drink the first minute, of course; and we were ensconced in two arm-chairs, while the dame and her pretty, comely daughter-in-law bustled about,—covering one end of the great table with a snowy, homespun cloth, and bringing out clotted cream and cheese-cakes and spice-bread, and I know not what else. Edward asked after her son.

"Oh, he is away to the Levant! He must take to the sea, like his grandfather and father before him," answered the dame, smiling and sighing at once. "He has got the salt drop in mun's blood, like every Lee and Atkins as never was born, I think. And Will, he's away to America, and has taken his wife with him to visit her kindred: so Patience and me, we be left alone as it were. But have you heard, Master Ned, that my husband's cousin, Ezechel Atkins, at Applecoombe, wants to sell out and go to America?"

"I have heard no news at all, dame, since I came home only yesterday. But why does Ezechel sell? I thought he had one of the nicest places in all North Devon."

"So he has, so he has. But you know his brother is in New England already, and 'Zechel hath a great family,—twelve lads, no less, and four maidens; and 'Zechel thinks there will be more room for his lads over there."

"And he is right, Master Ned," said the master of the house, entering in time to hear his wife's last words. "Welcome home, sir, and much joy befall you and your bride."

Master Atkins was a tall, spare man, with black curly hair a good deal grizzled, and splendid white teeth. He was very polite and even polished in his way. I learned afterward that he had been an officer in the navy, but had retired and taken to farming.

"And so you think your cousin 'Zechel is making a wise move," said my husband, as we sat down to the table.

"I do, sir; though if it were my case, I should go not to New England, but to New Jersey, where land is quite as good and the climate not so severe. But 'Zechel's brother is settled in New England, and doing well, and doubtless that is a strong reason for their choice."

"I have a friend in New Jersey. Is that very far from where your cousin is going?" said I. "I would like to send her a little parcel."

Master Lee smiled. "There is almost, if not quite, the length of England between the two places," said he. "Folk hereabout do not understand the size of things over there. But I make no doubt my cousin will take your parcel, madam. He may easily find a chance to send it, for there is a great deal of trade going on."

"But what will 'Zechel Atkins do with his farm?" asked my husband. "His lease must have a long time to run yet."

"Sixty years," answered our host. "'Zechel would gladly sell stock and fixtures, and the most of his furniture, if he could get his price."

"And that is—"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds, but I doubt not he would take two hundred, if he had the money in hand. The farm is well stocked, and hath the finest orchard in the country."

The talk then drifted away to other matters. I observed the beauty of the china bowl which held the clotted cream, and of some other pieces; and the dame must needs show me her china closet, which would have made many a fine lady wild with envy. I particularly admired a little black and gold coffee-pot, and nothing would do but she must bestow it on me for a wedding gift, as she said, as well as a lace kerchief which she told me she had made herself when a maid at school. Then we must go out and see the garden, the poultry yard, and the noble orchard: so it was on toward sunset before we got away.

We found supper ready when we arrived at the Hall. My father-in-law was evidently in a worse humor than in the morning, and received Edward's report of his errand with only a "humph." The parson was at the table, as usual, but there was no pretence of grace said. Madam sat at the head of the table, dressed out in all her finery; and, as we took our places, she shot a glance at us wherein I read triumphant malice. She had evidently been using her time well.

Mr. Studley drank plenty of strong ale with his supper, and called for wine afterward. My husband took one or two glasses, and then declined more. His father called him a white-livered milksop, and turned to the parson,—

"You are a man, at any rate, Rowson. You are not afraid of your brains, like my sanctimonious son. We will finish the bottle and another before we part."

"Not to-night, sir," answered Mr. Rowson. "To-morrow is Sacrament Sunday, and I must not drink deep to-night, lest I get the bishop down on me again."

My father-in-law cursed the Sacrament, using terms which made my blood run cold. In all my life I had never heard such blasphemy. Involuntarily I laid my hand on his arm.

"Dear sir, don't speak so," said I. "Think of what you are speaking,—of the Holy Communion."

He shook off my hand, and stared at me with a look of fury.

"What, you, you!" he stammered. "Has he made a sanctified humbug of you already?"

"I told you, you would have enough of my lady's airs," remarked his wife with a sneer. "Fine doings, indeed! A young woman rebuking her father-in-law at his own table."

"And you, sir, you have put this chit up to beard me, have you?" roared Mr. Studley, turning to his son.

"Do not be so angry, Mr. Studley," interposed Dr. Kirton, in his smooth, oily tones. He had a habit of putting his head on one side when he spoke, which would have set me against him if nothing else did. "I am sure Mr. Edward will make his wife beg your pardon."

"I pray you, Dr. Kirton, not to interfere between my father and myself," said my husband, speaking quite calmly, though I saw by his paleness how much he was moved. "I see nothing in my wife's words for which she need to ask pardon."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Studley tauntingly. "She has a right to insult your father at his own table, and to call his wife an actress and I know not what else.—Oh, yes, you may stare, madam, but I can tell you stone walls have ears. A pretty way, to be sure!"

With that Mr. Studley exploded in a new fury. In all my life I never saw any thing like it. There was no opprobrious epithet which he did not heap upon his son, and I think no demon from the lower regions could have beat him in the blasphemous language with which he assailed religion in all its forms. I looked at the parson, expecting him to show some displeasure, but though he looked annoyed, as a man might at an interruption to his pleasure, he never moved. Dr. Kirton put in a word now and then, artfully calculated to increase his patron's anger, while his sister made no attempt to conceal her satisfaction. As for Edward, he never said one word, till his father applied to me an epithet too vile to be recorded here. Then he rose from the table with flashing eyes.

"Come, Dolly, this is no place for you," was all he said.

I rose and put my hand through his arm.

"Ay, go, and never let me see thy craven face again!" roared the old man. "Begone from my house! I have tried in vain to make a man of thee. Begone, and beg or starve, as pleases thee best, and take thy father's curse with thee."

"Curses are like young chickens: they always come home to roost," said Edward solemnly. "Heaven grant that it may not be so with yours, sir!— Come, my wife."

My lady gave an insolent laugh as we left the dining-room. It soon appeared that the old man was in earnest. We had been in our room but a few minutes when Mr. Rowson came to the door.

"You had best be gone, Ned," said he. "The old man grows worse and worse, and vows you shall not stay in the house to-night; and that witch pushes him on. I have ordered your horses to the door, and Andrew will attend you."

"But where to go?" said my husband. "We cannot spend the night on the moor. Cannot you take us in?"

The parson looked perplexed. "I would," said he, "but my house is no place for a lady; and beside—Well, the truth is, Ned, I owe your father money, and I can't afford to displease him."

"We will not trouble you," said my husband. "The man who will not stand up for his Lord and Master will hardly do much for his friend."

"Nay, but do hear reason," said the poor parson, in a strait between his kindness and his cowardice. "Let us think a moment."

"Why should we not go to Master Atkins, where we were this afternoon?" said I. "Surely those good people will take us in over Sunday."

"A good thought," said my husband, "if the ride will not be too much for you."

"Nay, 'tis only six miles," said the parson. "She deserves some trouble for blowing up all this storm. Why could she not hold her tongue? But women must always be meddling."

"I will hear not one word against my wife," returned my husband sternly. "She did but what any Christian should,—what you yourself should have done, and not have left your Master's defence to a girl."

"What use in talking to an angry man?" said the parson, coloring. "But I bear no malice. Here comes Andrew for your mails. Go down the back way, and I will try to keep the old man engaged." So saying, he disappeared.

"And that man," began my husband.

But I begged him to be quiet and let us get away. In truth, I was terribly scared, and wanted nothing so much as to be out of the house. We were not to escape scot free, however. The poor old man followed us to the door, and dismissed us with a volley of execrations, ¹ swearing by all that was holy we should never see a penny of his money.

¹ This is no fiction. Mr. Studley is a real historical personage, and was turned out of his father's house in just the same way, for the same cause.

"I value not your oath, sir, since you swear by what you yourself do not believe in," said Edward, turning as we were about leaving the courtyard. "It grieves me to part from you in anger. I have borne much from you in times past. I entreat you to remember that deny God's word as you may, it is not the less true. And that, so surely as you live, you must one day stand before him, to give account of deeds done in the body. I call you yourself to witness that I have been to you a submissive and dutiful son, and I am willing to be so again, so soon as you shall see fit to recall me.—Come, Dolly."

As we rode out of the courtyard, we heard the old man's wrath exploding in execrations. And I caught sight of the woman laying her hand on his arm, as though scared at the storm she had herself provoked. I never saw her in life again, but once.

"We must ride fast, my love," said my husband. "It is growing late."

This was all he said during our ride, except a word of warning or encouragement now and then. Fortunately, it was a fine evening, and a half-moon gave us plenty of light. How glad I was that we had taken no luggage with us but our pillion mails, and one small mail that Andrew could carry easily behind him!

It was near ten o'clock when we reached the farm, but there was a light in the kitchen, and Master Atkins was standing in the porch, smoking his pipe. He uttered an exclamation of wonder on seeing us again, as well he might, and hastened to take me down from my horse.

"Will you take us in for the night, my friend?" asked my husband. "I have literally no shelter for my head or that of my poor young wife."

"Take you in! Ay, that I will, and more than welcome," answered Master Atkins. "What, the old gentleman is in his tantrums again!" Then, as Edward nodded, "Come in, come in.—Come, madam.—Janey, here is Master Edward and his lady come to stay all night with us."

I cannot think without grateful tears, even now, of the warmth and delicacy with which these excellent people welcomed us. The fire was blown up, and a couple of rosy maids sent in half a dozen different ways; while the dame herself would wait on me, take off my riding gear, and smooth my hair. I was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and the dame's motherly care was too much for my self-control: I burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed so convulsively that my husband was alarmed.

"There, don't 'e mind, don't 'e mind," said the dame soothingly. "She will be all the better, poor lamb.—Bring some wine, Patience.—There, drink this, my pretty. Hush, hush, nothing shall harm thee. There, see, thou art better already."

"I am very silly," said I, making a great effort to control myself, "but I am not used to riding so far, and I am so tired."

"Yes, indeed, poor tender soul! Bed is the best place for thee, and it is all ready. Come now, let me undress thee, and don't grieve too much. All will be well."

With the greatest kindness she helped me to undress, and as soon as I was in bed, brought me a warm drink to keep me from taking cold. All this time, neither she nor her husband had asked a single question. As she bade me good-night, I held her hand for a moment.

"You must not think, dame, that my husband has done any thing wrong."

"I know, I know," she answered. "Bless you, my dear, every one knows the old squire! Master Edward has been the wonder of the country for his patience and dutifulness to the old man. There, sleep, my tender, and all will be well."

The next morning I was waked early by the singing of the birds, the crowing of the cocks, and other farmyard noises. I could hear sounds of movement below, but all quiet and subdued. I was bewildered at first, and could hardly tell where I was. The room was far more comfortable, I must say, than that we had occupied at Studley Hall. The bed-linen was snowy white, and smelled of lavender. The curtains and counterpane were of India chintz, and a fine Turkish rug lay before the bed,—odd things, I thought, to find in a farmhouse in North Devon. But I remembered that the master of the house had been a seafaring man, which probably accounted for all these luxuries. While I was studying the patterns on the hangings, I fell asleep, and did not wake till my husband called me.

"Are you rested, Dolly? Do you feel like going to church? It is not a long walk."

"I should like to go, of all things," I answered, "but, Edward, how can you endure to see that man in the desk, and breaking the consecrated bread?"

"What, Rowson? Oh, we are not in his parish!" answered Edward. "And if we were, you know, love, the unworthiness of the priest hindereth not the efficacy of the sacraments. But this is quite a different person, as you will see. I think we shall both be better for the worship, and we will try to put aside all our cares till to-morrow. 'This is the day the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.'"

We broke our fast, and then walked with our host and his family to the little church, the tower of which I had seen from my window. It was very small and very old, built of the moor-stone, and almost shrouded in great leaved ivy, but there was a beautiful carved oak chancel screen, almost black with age, and I saw with pleasure how fair and white were the altar-linen and the surplice. The vicar was an old man, of almost rustical plainness of speech and manner, but he gave us an excellent, practical discourse, suitable to the day, and administered the communion with great reverence and decency. I was rather surprised to see how many communicants there were in proportion to the size of the parish, and remarked upon the matter to Master Atkins as we were walking homeward.

"Yes, our parson has done a great deal for the parish," he answered. "'Twas but a godless place when he came here, for the last incumbent was much such another as him over yonder at Studley, only worse. But we got rid of him at last. Mr. Dean is a Devon man born and bred, and knows how to deal with the people. The worst man in the parish will pull off his hat to him, and I have known him to go single-handed and unarmed into a den of deer-stealers and broken men, break up their assembly, and persuade them from some lawless deed, by the sheer force of his presence and speech. I would the old squire had him to deal with. He would find it a different matter, I trow."

"I hope so," I answered. "I was disgusted to see Mr. Rowson sit by and say not a word, while every thing that he ought to have held sacred was blasphemed and profaned."

"Ay, that is Mr. Rowson all over. But he hath been a free liver, and I fancy the old squire hath some hold over him. 'The borrower is servant to the lender,' you know, madam."

"Well, I do wonder how my husband ever lived with his father so long," I said, rather incautiously, perhaps.

"And so do many more, madam, but in spite of his pretending to despise his son, the old gentleman has always greatly depended on Master Ned in business matters. Only for that I believe your husband would have made himself independent long ago. I fear the poor old man hath got into bad hands enough, and that Master Ned will suffer by it."

We went to evening service, and heard the school-children catechized. And I was much pleased by the way in which Mr. Dean explained the Commandments, not descending to any trivialities, but making his matter so plain that the youngest child could carry away something thereof. Master Atkins told us the rector took great interest in the school, which had an excellent woman for a dame, and that even the Dissenters in the parish sent their children to her.

I thought within myself that I would make a little treat for the children, and then remembered, with a pang, that I was not likely to have money for any such purpose. However, I reflected that I had among my things a great roll of silk pieces which I had collected for my patchwork, and I could at least make some work-bags and needle-books for the little maidens. I suppose it was childish in me, but somehow this little plan for giving pleasure to others seemed to lighten up my spirits amazingly.

The next morning, my husband called me into our bedroom from the dairy, where I was diligently learning the true Devon way of making a junket.

"I am sorry to interrupt the process of your education, Dolly, but we must needs consider our ways and means. What are we to do to live?"

"I suppose there is no use in expecting any thing from your father," said I.

"No use at all, while he is in such hands. I have never been a favorite with him, but I did think he would have kept his promise when he agreed to give me a house and an income of mine own. I never would have brought you hither else."

"Then I am glad you were mistaken," I answered, "for I would not be anywhere else for the world."

"Truly?" asked my husband, with a bright look.

"Truly," I answered. "I can frankly say, Ned, that I would rather live in a cob hut with you, than in a palace with any one else."

Here occurred an interruption to the discourse which I need not set down. But how glad I was that I could in all honesty say as much!

"But we must think what we are going to do," continued my husband. "If we had only any capital to start with, I would take 'Zechel Atkins's farm off his hands. I have no fear but I could manage it, and make eventually a good thing of it, though it would mean hard fare for a few years, and harder work than these tender little hands are used to."

"Never mind the tender little hands," said I. "They have more strength than you think for, and what I don't know, I can learn."

"But Master 'Zechel wants his money down that he may have something more to start on," continued my husband. "And beside that, I would not at any rate like to begin with a millstone of debt round my neck, nor can I well apply to your uncle. He hath done a good deal for us; and beside that, I know that he has lost enough of late seriously to embarrass him. Have you any money, Dolly?"

"I have ten pounds," said I.

"And I have twenty. So we have at least thirty pounds between us and starvation."

At this moment a thought struck me which made me jump up in a hurry. My husband looked on with surprise as I brought out my trinket-box from my mail, and began turning over its contents. At last I found what I wanted. It was the little golden egg which my poor cousin, Sir Charles, had given me on his death-bed.

"What is it?" said Ned, as I put it into his hands.

I told him its history.

"And you have never opened it," said he, turning it over. "Who shall say that women have no curiosity?"

"Nobody need say so about me, because I have a great deal," said I; "so much that I want you to open my egg directly that I may see what is in it. I don't think it will be any infraction of my promise to open it now, for surely we are in a strait, if people ever were. Only, don't break the locket if you can help. Who knows but it may be like the golden egg, which the fairy gave to the wandering princess in the story, and contain a talisman which shall help us out of all our troubles?"

"There is no need of breaking the locket," said my husband, examining it with attention. "I see how it opens."

He pressed the spring as he spoke. The egg parted in the middle, and out dropped two little parcels, carefully wrapped in silver paper, and a small, folded note.

"What have we here?" said my husband.

We each opened one of the little parcels, and were fairly dazzled by the splendor of the jewels they contained.

"Lady Jem's diamond ear-rings!" I exclaimed. "The very same that are in her portrait by Lely. My mistress always wondered what had become of them. I little thought I had them in my possession all the time."

"But what is this?" said my husband, opening the folded paper. It was a note in Sir Charles's handwriting, saying that he gave the enclosed jewels, which were his own private property, to his dear cousin, Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, to be kept by her till after her marriage, and then either worn or used by her in any way she should think proper. The note was signed by Sir Charles, and attested by the names of Dr. Clarke his physician, and Richards his confidential servant.

"That was very thoughtful of your cousin," said Ned. "Do you know these witnesses?"

"Oh, yes! Dr. Clarke is court physician, and always attended my mistress; and after his master's death, Richards married, and has a shop for gloves and perfumes in Westminster Hall. I carried my aunt thither, and she bought a great deal of him. But how much, think you, the jewels are worth, Ned?"

"More than fifty pounds apiece, if I am any judge of such matters," answered my husband. "My good friend, Master Gifford of Biddeford, will, however, have a juster notion of them, having handled many such matters in his day. We will go thither to-morrow, and stop on our way home that you may see Applecoombe for yourself; that is, if you are minded to sacrifice your splendid ear-rings."

"It will be no great sacrifice," I answered. "I never had any fondness for trinkets; and I am sure these will do me more good put into a home, than dangling from my ears, specially out here in North Devon. Only I will keep the locket, if you please, in memory of my kind cousin."

"But, Dolly, have you thought what all this means for you?" asked my husband. "Do you understand that it means hard work and plain fare and the rank of a farmer's dame? What would your aunt say?"

"I shall not ask her," said I. "What is the use of being a married woman, if I can't have mine own way?"

"You shall have your way and mine too, if you like," said Edward. "Then it is settled that we are to carry these jewels to market, and exchange them for kine and sheep and such vulgar matters."

"Even so," I answered.

"Then we will ride to Biddeford to-morrow, if you are well rested. But take care of the note, Dolly. It may save trouble some day."

Our conference was interrupted by a call to dinner; for these good folk kept to their primitive hours, and dined before eleven of the clock. The good dame treated us to all sorts of country dainties, for she was and is a famous cook. I saw with pleasure the devout way in which Master Atkins said grace, not mumbling it over like a charm against rats, as my poor uncle used to do. The meal was a very pleasant one. Master Atkins, being skilfully led on by my husband, told us some very nice tales of his travels and adventures, and of the strange superstitions of sailors, particularly of the ghostly bark called the "Flying Dutchman," which never appears but in a storm, and is doomed, for the wickedness of its captain and crew, to wander forever, without ever making a port.

"You speak rather as if you believed in this unlucky Dutchman," said my husband.

"I would not say absolutely that I do not," answered Master Atkins seriously. ¹ "We old sailors see many strange things. I could tell you of a great creature with a body like a snow wreath, fully two fathoms in length, and with a dozen snaky arms, each big enough to pull down a big fishing boat, twisting and writhing like serpents, and great staring eyes,—a horrible sight it was, I can tell you. I never wish to see it again, I am sure of that." ²

¹ One of the most intelligent sailors I ever met, a Christian man and fairly educated, fully believed in the "Flying Dutchman."

² The great white squid, seen once in a generation by the whalers, but never yet described by naturalists. It is considered as of evil omen.

"Hush, Willy," said his wife reprovingly. "You should not tell the young lady of such frightful creatures."

"Oh, I am not easily scared!" I said.

But the dame shook her head at her husband so meaningly that he began to talk of pleasanter things, of the beautiful birds of South America, and the great fireflies, infinitely brighter than our glow-worms, and by which one can see to read even.

"When I hear Will Atkins's stories, it revives my old longing for the sea," said my husband. "If worst comes to worst, Dolly, I can leave you with our good friends here, and ship on a Bristol trader."

"And then I will don men's attire, and follow you, like the lady in the ballad," said I. "But with such tastes, and such a home, I wonder you never ran away to sea as a boy."

"I could not leave my mother while she lived," answered Edward. "I was her only comfort, and I promised her I would stay by my father as long as it was possible. Otherwise, I would have sailed with my poor uncle, and perhaps have shared his fate."

"Why, what happened to him?" I asked.

"His vessel was taken by Barbary corsairs, and the whole crew killed, or driven into slavery. One object of my journey to the East was to try to hear some news of my uncle, but I believe, from all I can learn, that he was killed in defence of his vessel. Better so than a lifetime of Turkish slavery."

"Maybe he will turn up sometime, with a shipload of gold, as one reads of in story-books," said I; "or perhaps he is a Turk, with a long beard, smoking a great curly pipe, like the grand Turk in Mr. Chardin's travels, and with as many wives as the stars in the skies. Who knows but you might have done the same if you had gone with him?"

Edward is so sober that I do like to stir him up sometimes, just as I used to poke up my mistress's great Indian cat and make him play in spite of his grave airs. Tom Atkins has promised to bring me a pair of these same cats next time he goes to Bombay. I hope he will get them home safely. I do love a nice cat.

The next day we rode to Biddeford and visited Master Gifford, who made us very welcome, and confirmed Edward's opinion of the worth of the jewels.

"But I would you had them in Bristol," said he. "There is a very worthy man, a correspondent of mine own, who deals in these matters, and who has, I know, a commission at present to purchase a number of fine diamonds. I am going thither to-morrow. Suppose you both go with me. The sea will be like a mill-pond, but, if madam is afraid of the voyage, my wife and daughters will make her most welcome while we are away."

Madam Gifford and her pretty daughters warmly seconded the invitation, but my husband leaving the matter to me, I decided to go with him. I was not at all afraid of the sea, and I always did like to see new places.

We had a very nice voyage, though the sea was not exactly like a mill-pond. I was surprised to see Bristol such a great and busy city. And wondered, like all strangers, at the steep and narrow streets, too narrow for any thing but a dog-cart.

Master Gifford took us to a very nice inn. And, after we had eaten and rested, he led us to his correspondent the jeweller.

We found him in his shop,—a tall, nice looking man, with very black crispy hair, and pale blue eyes, which, despite their want of color, had a singularly penetrating look. I liked him the moment I saw him. When he learned the nature of our business, he led us into his private room, and bade us be seated. My husband stated his errand, and produced the jewels, which Master Davidson examined with great attention.

"How much do you conceive these stones to be worth?" said he at last.

"If they are genuine, they should be worth fifty pounds apiece at least," answered my husband.

Mr. Davidson smiled. There was a look of mild amusement in his eyes which made my heart sink fathoms deep, for I thought at once that he believed the jewels were counterfeit.

"I should say you were no great judge of such matters," said Mr. Davidson, smiling again.

I saw my husband's face change, and knew his thought was the same as my own. I felt downright sick with suspense. Mr. Davidson looked at the jewels once more, and laid them carefully down on a piece of black velvet, where they shone like stars.

"I will give you a hundred pounds apiece for these diamonds," said he deliberately. "I say not that they are not worth more, but you know I must make my profit on them."

"That is no more than right," said my husband; while I felt like crying and laughing both at once. "Then you think there is no doubt of the stones?"

"I can tell a genuine stone from the best imitation ever made," said the merchant somewhat scornfully. "Nay, put me in a dark room, and I can tell the difference by the feeling."

"How?" I asked.

"That I cannot explain to you, madam. 'Tis faculty that comes by use, and also by inheritance. My family have dealt in precious stones for many generations. These stones are not only of good size, but of very uncommonly fine lustre."

It seemed like a dream, too good to be true, when I saw the two hundred pounds counted out, and realized the fact that my poor cousin's gift had made my husband and myself independent.

Mr. Davidson would treat us to coffee and to some wonderful foreign sweetmeats, the like whereof I never saw,—rose-leaves and violets preserved in clear syrup,—and a kind of marmalade made of figs, as he told us, which came from Constantinople. He would present me with a box of the marmalade when we came away, and also with a beautiful little china coffee-cup in a silver stand which I had greatly admired.

"Well," said Master Gifford, when we had returned to the inn, "did I not keep my word, and bring you to an honest merchant?"

"Yes, indeed, and we are greatly obliged to you," said my husband.

"'Tis nothing," answered Master Gifford hastily. "I would do much more than that for your mother's son. But, Ned, if you take my advice, you will bestow this treasure in a safe place till we leave town. My good friend, Master Birch, will take care of it in his strong-room."

My husband agreed, and we went forth to find the place. Master Birch was a sugar-refiner, with whom my husband had some slight acquaintance; and nothing would do but he must show us his furnaces, and treat us to Bristol milk ¹ (which is not milk for babes, by any means) and other dainties. I wonder, by the way, if this fashion of always giving wine or strong drink to visitors will ever go out. I am sure it will be a good thing if it does. Learning that I was lately married, Master Birch presented me with three loaves of very fine sugar, for luck, as he said, promising to send them to the inn.

¹ A kind of very rich punch, for which the Bristol sugar-refiners used to be famous.

Having thus prosperously disposed of our business, we went out to see the town, and to make some purchases which I had undertaken for Master Gifford's daughters. We were in a book-shop selecting music for the young ladies, when I heard a well-known voice at my elbow asking for Luther's Commentary on Galatians. It brought back to me at once my old life with my mistress. I turned with a start and saw Mr. Baxter, looking older and more worn than I had seen him, but as faultlessly neat and precise as ever. I don't believe even in prison his black coat ever had a speck on it.

I greeted him warmly, but he did not recognize me for a moment, till I told him who I was, when he answered me with all his old fatherly kindness.

"But you are so grown and improved, Mrs. Dolly, 'tis no wonder I did not know you," said he. "I have often wished to hear how you got on in your new relations. But I need not ask if you are happy, since your face tells its own story."

"Yes, indeed I am," I answered, "far happier than I ever hoped or deserved." And I presented to him my husband.

The stationer, seeing that we had met as old friends, kindly asked us into his private shop, and gave us seats.

"And so you are married, little Dolly," said Mr. Baxter. "It seems but a few days since you came, a shy, scared little girl of fifteen, to my Lady Corbet's service."

"I remember it well," I answered, "and how kindly you spoke to me when you found me crying in the ante-chamber."

"Ay, 'twas a hard place for a child," said Mr. Baxter musingly. "I have sometimes feared your mistress's peculiarities might set you against all religion."

"They did something toward it, I do believe," I answered, "not because she was a Presbyterian, however. I saw enough in Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, and Mrs. Andrews, not to say yourself, Mr. Baxter, to cure me of any such notion as that, if I had ever taken it up. It was, that, while I heard my mistress make great professions of piety, I saw that her whole heart and affections were set on things of this world; and it does not seem to me possible for any one to do that and be a true Christian, whether the world take the form of money or fashion or pleasure."

"You are right, my child, and glad am I to hear such sentiments from your lips," answered Mr. Baxter, "but you were ever a gracious child.—This little wife of yours, Mr. Studley, sent her very last guinea, I do believe, for the relief of a poor prisoner, when her wealthy mistress gave—How much, Dolly?"

"Seven shillings," said I. "I can never think of Dr. Bates's face without laughing. How is the good gentleman, sir?"

"Why, well and prospering as ever."

"And my mistress: do you know aught of her and her husband? For I hear she is married again." How glad I was to be able to ask this question without a tremor!

"Oh, yes! I heard of her only this day from an old friend of yours and hers,—Mrs. Williams," said Mr. Baxter, with a look of disgust on his thin, refined face which nearly set me off laughing.

"Mrs. Williams!" I exclaimed joyfully. "Is she here, then? Where is she to be found?"

"She is not far off, seeing she lodges above stairs with Master Bridges, the stationer, and his sister," answered Mr. Baxter, smiling, "but you cannot see her now, because she has just gone out. She can tell you of your late mistress better than I can. She is an admirable woman, though she is infected with some of the heresies of the day, and no more accessible to argument than a post."

I smiled, remembering some of the ancient controversies of these two good people, and how I used to wonder what they were about.

"And what is the news in town?" asked my husband.

Mr. Baxter shook his head.

"Nothing good, sir. The Papists rear their heads more and more boldly. Popish books and trinkets are openly sold in the shops, as you see they are here also, and conversions are growing to be the mode in the fashionable world. Mr. Dryden, the poet, hath been received into the Romish Church, as hath also my Lord Sunderland."

"I don't so much wonder at Sunderland," observed my husband. "He would sell his own soul or any one else for court favor. What part does his lady take?"

"I hear that excellent lady is greatly grieved and distressed," answered Mr. Baxter. "She is, by all accounts, an admirable woman."

"She is, indeed," said I. "I have often met her at my aunt's; they are great friends. And you say many converts are being made?"

"Yes, it is the latest mode," answered Mr. Baxter dryly, "but there is no knowing how long it may last, for the king grows more and more unpopular every day, and there are ominous murmurs. I believe strange events are preparing for this nation."

"I have heard that his Majesty is inclined to show great favor to the Dissenters, and hath even promised them toleration," said my husband.

"Yes, and at what price, and for what purpose? That he may secure not only toleration, but domination, for his own sect. For the sake of that, he would indulge not only Presbyterians, but Anabaptists and Quakers and ranters of every sort," said Mr. Baxter. "We will accept of no such gift, if I know my brethren at all. But I must be going. My dearest Dolly, I am most happy to have met you again. You have a treasure in this child, Master Studley; I hope you will cherish her as she deserves. And, my children, I trust you mean to set up your household in the fear of God, and as those who must give account to him."

"I trust so, sir," answered Edward.

"It was my husband who first taught me to love God, Mr. Baxter," I said. "It was he who led the poor, tired little lamb, weary of the thorns and briars of the world, back to the fold of the Good Shepherd."

"Why, that is well, and right glad am I to hear you say so," said Mr. Baxter. He gave us his blessing, and went away just as Mrs. Williams came in.

I never was more glad to see any one in my life. We carried her to our inn, and would have her sup with us.

And my husband going out with Master Gifford, she gave me the whole story of her lady's marriage.

"And you have really left her?" said I.

"Ay, she turned me away," answered Mrs. Williams, with a tremor of the lip. "After all my years of hard and faithful service, she drove me from her because I spoke my mind concerning her intended marriage. But I could not do otherwise, so I must needs take the consequences."

"What possessed her?" said I.

"Who can tell? The spirit which sometimes does possess old women to make fools of themselves," answered Mrs. Williams, with more bitterness than ever I heard from her. "She is besotted with that wicked man, and can refuse him nothing."

"Not even money?" I asked incredulously.

"Not even money," answered Mrs. Williams. "She lavishes gold on him like water; and he takes it, rewards her with a kiss or not, as it happens, and, unless he be greatly belied, spends it in gambling and every sort of wickedness."

"Ay, we heard he was a gambler," said I. "Poor woman. She may die in an almshouse yet, as she was always predicting!"

"Likely enough, for she hath put every thing into his hands, except a few hundred pounds which Mr. Robertson has in his control, and won't give up. You ought to see her, with her dark wig and fashionable dresses, trying to look young. Bah! It makes me sick to think of it. But tell me all about yourself, my dear. This seems a very fine young gentleman you have married."

"He is, indeed," said I. "If I thanked God for nothing else, I would do so for giving him to me, and saving me from that other."

"And so you may, so you may, my dear. But about your fortunes now?"

"Our fortunes are not very flourishing, but yet I trust we may do well enough," I answered. "Take out your knitting, which I am sure you have in your pocket, and I will tell you all about it. There, now you look like yourself," (for the dear woman had pulled out her stocking, I should say the very same I had last seen in her hands). "Now you shall hear the whole, from the beginning."

I told it accordingly, with a running commentary of exclamations from my good old friend. I had hardly done, when she took me up with eagerness.

"O Mrs. Dorothy, my dear, take me to live with you! I will be worth ten hired servants to you, and ask for no wages. I have all the money I shall ever need, but oh, let me but have a home under your roof! You are very young and new to your duties, but I know all about dairy work, from the rearing of calves and lambs to the making of cream cheeses."

"Dear Mrs. Williams, I would love nothing better than to have you with me," said I. "You were my only friend after my mother died; and, had I but been guided by you, I should have been saved the great trouble of my life. But you know we shall be very poor. I do not suppose I shall be able to keep any servant, except perhaps, some little village maid who will come for her meat and clothes. And you are so accomplished: you might take a place in any nobleman's household."

"Never mind my accomplishments," said Mrs. Williams almost crossly. "They will keep, I dare say. I have no desire to go into any more great households. What I want is a quiet home for my old age, where I can be quit of the vanities of the world, and yet be of some use in it."

"You are not likely to see much of the vanities of the world in our household, seeing my husband and I have no more than two hundred and fifty pounds between us," said I. "Dear Mrs. Williams, nothing would make me happier than to have you with me, as I said, but you know I must consult my husband."

"To be sure you must. But Dolly, my dear,—I beg pardon, I should say Mrs. Studley—"

"No, you shouldn't; you should say Dolly, just as you always did," I interrupted. "But what were you going to say? You see I have not forgotten all my naughty tricks. I know how to interrupt, as you used to chide me for doing."

"Ay, I remember. I was going to ask you, my dear, whether your husband knew about Mr. Morley?"

"All about him that I know," I answered. "I told him the whole story."

"And very rightly," said Mrs. Williams, looking relieved. "These untold stories and concealments are ghosts which have risen to disturb many a married pair."

Mr. Studley coming in at the moment, I told him of Mrs. Williams's proposal. He left the matter wholly to me, and I was not long in accepting the offer. Mrs. Williams has made her home under our roof ever since, and I believe will never leave it, save for her home in Paradise.

We returned to Biddeford next day, leaving our treasure in the hands of Mr. Birch, subject to Mr. Studley's order, which we could do with great convenience, as Master 'Zechel Atkins meant to embark from Bristol. On our way home, we stopped at Applecoombe to view the farm.

"What a lovely wood," said I, as we came in sight of the place, "and so near the house."

"That is the orchard," said my husband. "Applecoombe has always been famous for its orchard. You see the house is a very old-fashioned one."

It was, indeed, being built of brick and timber, like many of the old houses in Biddeford. There was a deep porch overgrown with jessamine and passion-flower, and on either side the door grew great myrtle trees, taller than my head. There was a very pretty flower-garden,—rather a rare sight on a farm,—and every thing looked in excellent trim.

"This seems promising, does it not?" said I.

"Oh, I know the place well!" replied my husband. "I have often been over the farm with the oldest lad, who was a great playmate of mine."

"And where is he now?" I asked.

"His bones lie out yonder in the Atlantic, like those of many another friend and playmate of my youth," answered my husband. "But here comes the dame to welcome us."

And a very warm welcome she gave us, leading us into the house, and sending for her husband and sons, who were busy abroad. Of course we had to eat and drink; and then the good woman took us over the house, while Edward talked with her husband. The house, though old, as I said, was convenient and pleasant,—facing the west and south, well sheltered from the wind, and with quite a grove of walnut and sweet chestnut trees at the back. The upper rooms were a good deal pulled up, for which the dame apologized, saying she and her daughters had already begun to pack. I liked the look of the place from the first, and was glad when my husband told me he had concluded his bargain on very favorable terms.

We came over again the next day, to decide about the furniture, most of which we kept, as we had none of our own. And here I found the use of having Mrs. Williams at my elbow with her advice, for naturally I knew very little about the matter. I do think she heartily enjoyed the business of poking the feather-beds and pillows, tapping the earthenware with her knuckles, to test its soundness, and so on. I followed after her, looking as wise as I could, and holding my tongue, so as not to show my ignorance.

A bargain is soon settled when both parties are anxious for it. In less than a fortnight, Master Atkins and his family had embarked for America, with all their goods and chattels, and we entered on our new home. Very forlorn it looked, I must say, on that chilly May morning. No house looks very cheerful just after a removal. And it seemed to me that the furniture left behind, and standing about in disorder, and the litter of odds and ends of no earthly use, and too good to burn up, made the rooms more dismal than they would otherwise have been.

I did feel terribly down-hearted and discouraged at first, I must say, but I would not have shown any such feeling for the world. How glad I was to have Mrs. Williams at my elbow! Mrs. Atkins had lent me a strong, handy maiden to help me for a day or two. We all went to work with a will, and a few hours made a great difference in the appearance of things.

"Oh, it is not bad, by any means!" said Mrs. Williams cheerfully, as we sat down to rest a moment. "The house is so clean that it will be easy to get it in order. The kitchen does not look like ours, when we moved to the court end of the town. Do you remember?"

"Yes, indeed," I answered. "I wonder what Peggy would say to working in such a place,—all underground, and with the water coming in to flood the floor at high-tides, and the black beetles running all about the walls."

"Mussy!" exclaimed Peggy. "And do people live like that in London, mistress? I thought London town had been all gold and gilding."

"The gold is all on the upper side, my maid," answered Mrs. Williams; "and most of that is but gilding and base metal."

"My sister liveth in Biddeford with a merchant's lady, and I thought her kitchen was narrow enough," said Peggy, "but to live under ground, and with black beetles—mussy to gracious!"

A knock at the door averted from Peggy's head a lecture on profane swearing, which I saw hovering on Mrs. Williams's lips. She is quite a Quaker in her notions on those matters.

The visitor proved to be Master Atkins, with a great basket containing roast fowl, cream cheese, tarts, and I know not what else, for our dinners. Dame Atkins had insisted on our taking a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine with us that we need not bring scarceness on our new home by entering it empty-handed.

I sent him out to find Mr. Studley, who was busy about the barn, and we had quite a feast ready when the men came in. My husband intended to keep but one man at the house, and had been looking for someone, but had not heretofore heard of anybody to suit him. He now entered, followed by Andrew.

"You see I have found a man," said he. "Andrew is turned adrift as well as ourselves, and for our sake."

"I don't mind," said the old man, though his lip trembled. "I meant to have left at the term, anyhow. I can't abide to live under the same roof with those two. I'm not so young as I was, but I'm strong enough, and not afraid to do my day's ploughing or harvesting with any lad of them all."

(Edward told me afterward that he would have preferred a younger man, but, as Andrew had lost his place on our account, he felt bound to take him on. It seems my father-in-law was greatly enraged when he learned next day that Andrew had attended us to the farm, and turned him away without ceremony, though he had lived in the family all his life).

"But, indeed, he groweth worse and worse," said Andrew, concluding his tale. "He is like one possessed with the Evil One, drinking, swearing, and blaspheming from morning till night, and almost from night till morning, and Kirton egging him on to drink more and more all the time. 'Tis my belief that the poor old gentleman will not stand it long, and that they are trying to get him out of the way."

"But I should think that he would see for himself that so much drink is hurtful to him," said I, while Edward went into the outer kitchen to wash his hands.

Master Atkins shook his head.

"When a man has lived past his threescore and ten without ever denying or controlling himself, he is not going to begin then," said he. "And that hath been the way with Mr. Studley. His life hath been one long self-indulgence in every wish which hath sprung up in his mind, or which Satan has put there. I would not tell you all the mischief he hath wrought hereabouts,—far more than his son ever heard of. I hope these adventurers who have got him in their clutches may not chouse Master Ned out of his inheritance entirely, but I shall not be surprised if the old man leaves every thing to them."

Edward now returned. And we sat down in true farmer fashion, with the servants at the lower end of the board. I could not but wonder what my aunt would have said to see me. But I had made up my mind from the first, that if I were to be a farmer's dame, I would "be" one, and not keep up any fine lady airs.

In a week's time we were comfortably settled in our new home, and I had made good progress in the arts of the dairy and kitchen. Indeed, I had taken lessons before of Mistress Atkins. And I shall never forget my husband's face of surprise when he found me in the barnyard in a red petticoat and homespun kirtle, milking a long-horned heifer. (I own I was rather afraid of her, but I did not let her find it out.)

"What would Lady Fullham say?" said he.

"She would say I had got a good mess of milk, I hope," I answered merrily. "And now you may carry the bucket to the dairy, if you like."

"I would the barns were nearer the house, for your sake," said Edward, "but I think our North Devon farmers like to get them as far away as possible. I will make a change in that matter, if we stay long enough."

If it be an inconvenient fashion in one way, it is nice in another, for one does not have the smells and noises of the farmyard all day long. But I must say that on rainy and sleety days, I could have wished the barnyard nearer, and the path that led to it less steep.

I did not have a very easy time that summer. Of course every thing was new to me. I made mistakes, and should have made more if I had not had my dear Mrs. Williams to counsel me. She could give little more than counsel, for she had the ill-fortune to sprain her ankle, and was confined to her settle and arm-chair for nearly three months. So I had her to wait on with all the rest. But I could well afford to do it.

My only servant was a younger sister of Peggy's,—a stout, willing girl, very good-tempered, but not very bright, and with a special genius for dropping and slopping. More than one pan of milk have I seen her spill all over the floor, in removing it from the hearth to the shelf, after the cream had clotted beautifully. I must say my fingers itched to cuff her ears, but I never did. At last, however, I found the place to get hold of her. I discovered that she was very anxious to learn to read, and I promised her a lesson every day that she did her work well.

Her mother was very doubtful, declaring that Molly would be good for nothing at all if she moiled what little brains she had over books, but I persevered, and my experiment turned out admirably. Using her mind in one direction seemed to brighten it in another. And, when Molly knew that her beloved spelling-lesson depended on the state of her floor and pails, she took infinite pains with her cleaning. At present, I must say, she goes rather to the other extreme.

Well, I worked very hard, and was often so discouraged with my own failures that I was ready to sit down and cry, but I could not but put the best face upon matters when I saw how hard my poor husband worked. He felt very sadly, too, about his father. We never saw any of the family, but the accounts we heard were worse and worse. Strange as it seemed, Edward did really love his father, and grieved over the estrangement. He wrote to the old man two or three times, but the letters were returned torn in two, without having been opened, and with some abusive message.

At last Mr. Rowson rode over to see us, and counselled my husband to send no more letters.

"They do but anger him the more, and that woman makes use of them to set him against you. He is wholly in her hands and those of her brother, as he calls himself, though between ourselves, I don't believe he is her brother at all, more than I am."

"How strange that Mr. Studley should be governed by such wretches, to the prejudice of his own son!" said I.

"It is not strange to me," answered Mr. Rowson. "Mr. Studley was always that way. He always had somebody who was all perfection, some favorite servant or boon companion who flattered and governed him. Do you remember, Ned, how he held on to Wilkins, his steward, long after every one in the country knew that Wilkins was cheating the eyes out of his head? I believe people of his disposition, so afraid of being influenced or advised by those who have the right to do so, are often served just in this way."

"No doubt you are right," said Edward.

"I know I am," answered Mr. Rowson. "And so, Ned, if you will take my advice, you will write no more at present. You know me for your friend, I hope, and I would not advise you save for your good. I may not have been a very good friend to myself, but I have been a good one to you."

"That you have," answered Edward warmly. "But, Rowson, why should you not be a good friend to yourself? Why should you not break off these courses so unbecoming any Christian, much more an ordained priest, and live as becomes what you profess?"

Mr. Rowson shook his head sadly.

"'Tis too late, I doubt," said he. "Beside, I keep some influence with the old man by drinking out a bottle with him now and then. We must fight the Devil with his own weapons."

"'Negatur,' to both propositions," answered my husband. "You do not keep any influence with my father by sharing in his drinking-bouts. Will he take one bottle the less because you ask him? Neither are we to fight the Devil with his own weapons. He understands the use of them far better than we do. If we would have the advantage, we must attack him with weapons he does not understand, or dares not touch."

"Maybe so," answered Mr. Rowson. "But I have at least done one thing, Ned. I had a little money come to me from my old aunt Truesdale's estate, and I have paid your father all the money I owed him. So I have that yoke off my neck, at all events. But it went hard," said the poor man, shaking his head. "I did so want to put it into the church-organ. Nobody knows what I suffer every Sunday from that horrible instrument."

"When I come to my fortune, you shall have a new one," said my husband. "Meantime, stay and sup with us; and my wife shall sing for you, and show you that the milk-pail and the churn have not quite spoiled her hand for the lute."

Mr. Rowson staid and made himself very agreeable. 'Twas a pity to see a man of his gifts, who might be so useful, sunk in self-indulgence and sloth. But I have never seen elegant tastes and accomplishments do any thing toward keeping man or woman from sin.

Matters went on in this way till the middle of September. The last month had been to me much easier than those which had gone before. I had learned to do my work more easily, and took great pride in my butter and cream cheese, which Mrs. Atkins pronounced equal to her own. The crops were turning out well, and the cattle doing nicely; and our apple-orchard, always a fine one, was this year quite wonderful for the beauty and abundance of the crop.

I had been out to look for some stray hens which had been seduced from the ways of virtue and domesticity by a pair of vagrant guinea-fowls, and was coming in with my apron full of early pippins, when I saw Mr. Rowson at the kitchen door holding his jaded horse by the bridle, and conferring with my husband. Both the men wore such perturbed faces that I was sure something had happened, and quickened my steps. As I came up, Mr. Rowson put out his hand as if to keep me off.

"Don't come near me, child. You need not be in the mess, at all events," said he.

"What mess?" I asked, wondering, for he was always very polite to me. "What do you mean?"

"My father and his wife are both very ill with fever," said Edward huskily. "Everybody has deserted them, and left them to die alone. I must go to them at once, Dolly. Will you get a few things ready?"

I went up-stairs, got my husband's clothes ready, and then coolly put on my own riding gear. I had always noticed that if I wanted to do any thing particularly audacious, and went on and did it without saying any thing, my husband took it for granted that all was right. So I came down-stairs with my bundles, as though it had been all settled between us. Mr. Rowson opened his eyes wide when he saw me.

"What, you!" said he. "Edward, you will not suffer this child to risk her life in any such way."

My husband looked doubtfully at me, but I did not give him time to speak.

"Of course I shall go," said I, as quietly as if it had been a question of going to church. "A woman's help will be needed, and Ned must have some one to look after his comfort.—Mrs. Williams, am I not right?"

"I think you are, and none of us will die till the time appointed," answered Mrs. Williams, bringing her predestination doctrine to my support. "Mrs. Studley's place is with her husband, and she will not die any the sooner for doing her duty. I can see to every thing here."

And then she began to tell me how to guard myself and my husband by taking good food and fresh air and avoiding chills. She really is the most sensible woman in the world.

It was near sunset when we came to Studley Hall, and I was at once reminded of my first arrival. At the gate we met Dr. Kirton, booted and spurred, just mounting his horse.

"You had better not go in. You can do no good," said he. "Your father will not know you, and they are both as good as dead. You won't get any thing by going in now."

"Judas," said my husband, with such a burst of passion as I never heard from him before, "dost thou judge every one by thy vile self? Dost thou think it is 'that' I am thinking of? Begone."

Kirton cast a venomous glance at Edward, but made no reply. And I was glad to see him mount his horse and ride off.

We dismounted at the door; and fastening our horses, for there was no one to take them, we entered the house. All was still and deserted below, but up-stairs we heard a woman's voice in such accents of horror and despair as I never imagined, and cannot describe.

"Don't desert me, Jack," it cried. "I did all for you. Don't leave me to die alone. Oh, for pity's sake, don't leave me!"

We went up-stairs, following the sound. The doors of two adjoining chambers were open; and from them proceeded an air enough to knock one down.

Edward went straight through the first room, and flung the casement wide open. Then he drew back the closed curtains of the bed. There lay the poor old man, without sense or motion, with half-open glazed eyes and blackened, parted lips. Only his heavy breathing showed he was alive.

"Go, Dolly," said Edward hoarsely. "You can do no good here. Rowson will help me."

I obeyed at once, for I wanted to find the other poor thing, whose wailing pierced my heart. She did not notice me at first, but when I too had opened the window, and put back the curtain, the fresh air seemed to bring her a little to herself, and she stared at me with a wondering gaze.

"You!" said she. "You are young Mrs. Studley. Did you die on the moor, and has your ghost come back?"

"No," I answered. "I am no ghost. See, my hands are warm and substantial. Try to compose yourself, and tell me what you want."

"Water, water," she gasped. "Oh, for one drop of water to cool my tongue, for I am tormented in this flame!"

I did not believe any thing would hurt her, and I remembered that in my ague Dr. Burnett gave me all the water I wanted, in spite of Mrs. Sharpless's horror. I brought a glass of water, fresh from the draw-well, and she drank it eagerly.

"It is Mrs. Studley," said she, looking at me, and holding my hand, as I would have withdrawn the glass. "What has brought you here? Have you come to heap coals of fire on my head? Don't do that: it is burning already."

"Hush," I answered. "I am going to bathe your head and face, and you will feel better."

I went to the toilet table, which was loaded with perfumes and cosmetics, and finding a bottle of Hungary water, ¹ I bathed her face and hands with it, brushed her hair as well as I could, and smoothed and cooled the tumbled pillows. My cares seemed to soothe her, for she fell into a troubled sleep, and I stepped away without disturbing her.

¹ Hungary water was distilled from rosemary, and was esteemed of great value in fevers. It was the invention of the unfortunate Queen of Bohemia.

I found that Edward and Mr. Rowson had changed the old gentleman to a clean cot-bed, and cleared out the room a little, but the poor old man was insensible to all their cares. Mr. Rowson told me in a whisper that he could not live more than a few hours.

I went down-stairs, roused up the kitchen fire, and finding some coffee, I made a pot of it, toasted some bread, and set out what decent provisions I could find. There was an abundance of every thing, but in such a state,—such pots of stale broth and heaps of bones and fragments,—it was enough to breed the plague, let alone a fever. It was clear enough what kind of housekeeping had obtained under the sway of the poor woman up-stairs. I was trying to bring things to some kind of order, when the kitchen door opened, and in came old Janey.

"I heard you and Master Neddy had come, and I couldn't stop away," said the good soul. "Don't 'ee do that, mistress; 'tisn't fit for the likes of you—" taking a saucepan out of my hand. "And how is the poor old gentleman?"

I told her. She shook her head.

"'Tis all over with mun," said she solemnly. "I knowed that afore I come. 'Twant for naught I heerd the white owl last night and night before."

"What about the white owl?" I asked, as I was picking up the old silver spoons which lay here and there among the rubbish. "I should think owls might be common enough here. I am sure they are about Applecoombe. They carried off a dozen chickens from me last month."

Janey shook her head solemnly.

"'Tis no common owl, my tender; 'tis the white owl of the Studleys, the snow-white bird that always screams before any great misfortune befalls the family. I heard mun plain enough the night before master brought home that witch, but no one ever sees mun, but one of the family. Oh, there's a-many such things happen here in the west! But how about that other?"

I told her about Mrs. Studley.

"'She' won't die," said Janey scornfully. "That kind never do, unless their Master has done with them. But do you get Master Ned to come down, and take some meat; and take some yourself, there's a lamb. I will stay with that one up-stairs. I can't abide to think of your tender hands a-touching mun."

"But that is not Christian like, Janey," said I. "Think what our Lord did for the woman who was a sinner."

"Ay, but a repentant sinner," answered the old woman shrewdly. "There, don't 'ee stand to argue with an old woman, but bring Master Neddy to his supper, there's a lamb."

There was sense in this, at any rate: so I went up, and with some coaxing brought my husband down to take refreshment. Mr. Rowson promised to watch my father-in-law every moment, and to call us if he showed any signs of life.

The other patient continued to sleep uneasily, muttering, and throwing her arms about. It seemed to me her face had changed for the worse, and I said as much to Janey.

The old woman nodded.

"She is struck for death," she said. "Her ill-gotten gains won't do her no more good." And then, in a relenting tone, "Poor thing, poor thing! Maybe after all she never had the chance to learn better. Mr. Champernoun's Harry, who hath been in Bristol, says he knows he saw her in a theatre there, a-playing in men's clothes, and that she is a regular play actor. ¹ To think of that,—a woman a-playing on the stage, and in men's clothes! Do you think it can be true, mistress?"

¹ It must be remembered that the appearance of women on the stage was an innovation of Charles Second's days, which excited grave reprobation from all serious people.

"I know it is," I answered. "I have seen her often in London."

But I did not tell Janey, what I knew to be true, that Becky Marshall was the daughter of a godly Presbyterian minister, as good a man as ever lived, so Mrs. Pendergast had told me.

When night came, Janey would have had me go to bed, or at least lie down. But, as it turned out, both of us were needed to manage the patient, who raved in delirium all night, now going over parts she had played, and now repeating bits of the Westminster Catechism which no doubt she had learned at her mother's knee. At last she fell into a troubled slumber. The gray dawn was beginning to steal up the sky, and Janey had gone down to see to the kitchen fire, when Mrs. Studley opened her eyes, and fixed them on me with a look I shall never forget.

"Am I dying?" said she.

"I fear so," I answered. I dared not but tell her the truth. "My poor Rebecca, try to turn your eyes to God,—your father's God. There is yet time. Let me call Mr. Rowson."

"Yes, call him, call him," said she eagerly.

I went to call Mr. Rowson, who was resting in a great chair. My father-in-law was still lying stupid, as he had done ever since we arrived. Mr. Rowson rose unwillingly, as it seemed.

"What can she want of me? I can do her no good. What am I to comfort a dying sinner, who need mercy myself?"

"We all need it," said I. "But hasten, I do not think she has many minutes to live."

When we entered the room, we found Rebecca's great black eyes eagerly fixed on the door.

"The will, the will!" she exclaimed as Mr. Rowson came to the bedside. "Find that will, and burn it. It is in the great walnut cabinet. Burn it."

"Never mind the will," said I. "Try to think of something better.—Pray with her, Mr. Rowson."

"I want none of his prayers," she cried. "I know what his religion is worth. Go, go, and find the will, and burn it."

"Perhaps I had better pacify her," he whispered to me. And then, aloud, "Yes, we will try to find it. Make your mind easy, Mrs. Studley. Justice will be done at last, never fear."

She seemed content, and dozed off again for a few minutes. Then she roused up and looked around.

"I thought my father was here," said she. "I thought I heard him say,—

"'The blood of Jesus cleanseth from sin.'

"But it is all a dream," she added sorrowfully, "all a dream. My father is in a better place, and there is no cleansing for such as I."

"There is, there is!" I exclaimed. "Dear Rebecca, though your sins have been as scarlet, they shall be white as snow. I know your good father would say so if he were here. Only believe."

She looked at me with a singularly intent gaze.

"You came to me when all the world deserted me," said she. "I slandered you, and abused you, and turned you out of doors; and yet you came to me at the risk of your life and nursed me. If He were like that—"

"He is a thousand million times better," said I, weeping. "Only turn to him, only pray for forgiveness."

"You may pray," said she, sinking back on her pillows. "You are good. Yes, pray; my head is growing heavy, and I cannot think of the words."

Oh, how earnestly I prayed that this poor creature might have, even in this awful moment, grace to turn her face homeward to her Father's house! I think she understood the words, and tried to join in them, but as I looked up, at a touch from Janey, I saw she was going. I began the commendatory prayer, but before I finished, it all was over.

Mr. Studley lingered all day, and died at sunset, making no sign, save that once he opened his eyes and turned them wistfully from Edward to myself. I think he knew us both, but it was only for a moment. The veil fell again; and, just as the last rays of the sun shot into the room, he died without a struggle.

"He is gone! My old friend is gone," said Mr. Rowson, weeping like a child, as Edward closed his father's eyes. "Oh, if I had but been faithful, how different might his death have been! But I am a changed man," said he, looking solemnly upward. "If it please Heaven to spare some short remnant of my worthless, wasted life, it shall be given to his service."

I was glad to hear him say as much, but I had no time to attend to him. Edward's fixed looks alarmed me, and I wanted nothing so much as to get him out of the room. I had no sooner brought him to the parlor than he fainted, and lay for some time as much like one dead as a living man could be. However, I revived him at last, and was thankful when he burst into a flood of tears. I soothed and quieted him as well as I could, and persuaded him to take some food, and then to lie and rest, while Mr. Rowson, Janey, and I did what was needful up-stairs. How glad I was that I had carried my point and come with him!

The day of the funeral Dr. Kirton appeared, in company with an attorney from Biddeford, a man of no good reputation. Edward had looked carefully among his father's papers for the will which he knew the old gentleman had made shortly before our marriage, but it was not to be found. I had my own idea about the matter, remembering poor Rebecca's words; and I was not much surprised when the attorney produced a will made some time during the summer, and leaving every thing to Dr. Kirton and his sister, except a hundred pounds to Mr. Rowson, and the harpsichord and music-books belonging to the first Mrs. Studley, which, to my great surprise, were left to me. The will was witnessed by two persons in Biddeford, and was perfectly formal.

"You will find it quite correct," said Dr. Kirton very politely, but with a gleam of triumph in his snaky eyes. "The musical instrument shall be sent to Mrs. Studley, as my poor friend directed.—The money shall be paid to you in due time, Mr. Rowson.—I presume, Mr. Studley, you will not care to remain here longer.—Mr. Rowson, will you not stay to sup with me? I have your fee for your services to my late brother."

"Thy money perish with thee!" burst forth Mr. Rowson. "May the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ever I break bread with thee! Hast thou killed, and also taken possession? Beware, that the fate of Ahab and Jezebel doth not overtake thee in the midst of thy ill-gotten gains!—Come, my children, and leave this roof, which is accursed with the presence of a traitor, a murderer."

"Mr. Rowson, you shall answer for this language," said Dr. Kirton, turning fairly blue, partly with rage, and partly, I fancy, from fright.

"I do not fear you," answered the vicar. "Come, children."

Edward hardly spoke a word till we arrived at home, where Mrs. Williams had every thing in order, and a bright little fire to welcome us. Then, as he looked about, he broke silence.

"Well, Dorothy, this is to be our home, it seems. Are you content with it?"

"More than content," said I; "happy and thankful. But it is easier for me than for you to lose what is rightfully yours. It is very hard upon you, my poor Ned."

"It is hard," my husband admitted. "The old place hath been in our family since before the Conquest. The Hall was built with Spanish gold taken in the days of Elizabeth. But what does it matter, after all? I must soon have left it. My great trouble is for thee, my dear. I little thought what I was bringing thee to."

"You have brought me to the happiest part of my life," said I. "Don't fret about that, but doff your riding gear, and get ready for the savory supper Mrs. Williams has prepared for us."

Edward was quite unwell for several days, and my heart sank fathoms deep as I thought of his coming down with the fever. But I believe his illness was more of the mind than the body. He could not but feel deeply the loss of the estate which had descended from father to son for so many generations, and of which he was now deprived by no fault of his own. But that was a small matter, to one of his way of thinking, compared to his father's death,—taken in the midst of his sin. I was going to say, without one moment for repentance, but that would not be true, seeing he had had a long life granted him wherein to make his salvation sure.

As for myself, I won't deny that I was disappointed, though, as I said, poor Rebecca had prepared me in some measure for what happened. No doubt she was knowing to the will. I could not but wish to see my husband take his proper place in the county, nor was I quite insensible to the change that would have been made in my own position had Edward succeeded to his rights. But, after all, I was young and strong, and the work was no such great hardship. So I did not fret very much about that.

Only on cold, sleety days, when the path was slippery, and the barnyard miry, and the butter was long in coming, or the kitchen chimney smoked, I would think how much pleasanter it would be to practise on my harpsichord or sit at my knitting. But I soon learned that such thoughts were unprofitable guests, and I resolutely turned them out.

Edward had one great comfort, and that was the change in Mr. Rowson. Certainly I never saw a man so altered. He never touched wine, or even cider, saying that he dared not trust himself with it. He took to studying his Bible, and reviving his knowledge of Greek and Hebrew, for he had once been a fine scholar. He preached every Sunday, catechized the children, visited the poor and the sick, and strove in every way to repair, if he could not undo, the mischief he had done.

The only indulgence he allowed himself was his music. He used the hundred pounds left him by his patron in repairing the church-organ, and found a good organist in the person of an old gentleman in Biddeford, who was just about retiring to one of the almshouses in Exeter, but was easily prevailed upon to accept a cottage in Studley and a small salary instead.

Almost all the folks hereabout are naturally musical; and I do think Mr. Rowson's choir, which he took great pains in training, brought a good many to church, where they certainly heard the gospel preached as never before. Mr. Rowson was a frequent visitor at our house, and used to have many deep arguments with Mrs. Williams concerning her peculiar tenets (which I don't in the least understand, to this day), but they always came together at last on the New Testament, so they continued excellent friends.

I had heard but twice from my aunt since my marriage. The family was still in London, detained by my uncle's business, which, however, was prospering, and he was in a way to retrieve his losses. My aunt wrote that Betty was well in health, but not in good spirits; that she did not care to go out, and missed her sister more than ever. Betty's letter was written evidently in one of her bad moods. She hated London and every thing about it. Her mother would make her go to the theatre and to balls and banquets, and she had been obliged to leave off her mourning. She only wished she were with me. I wished it, too, and determined I would try to have a visit from her when the family returned.

In my aunt's next letter she wrote that Betty was in better spirits; that she had been presented at court and much admired, and the king had taken great notice of her, which was an unusual compliment from him nowadays, as his Majesty was so engrossed with public business. My uncle was like to recover all he had lost, and more, and the family were coming home for Christmas, when she hoped Mr. Studley would spare me for a visit.

Betty's letter was not a bit like herself. It was long, and full of public news and accounts of the balls she had attended, but not one word of herself. The letter made me uncomfortable, I could hardly tell why. I had never told my aunt any particulars about our way of life, and I suppose she thought my husband and myself were living as we had expected to do.

Now, however, by my husband's advice, I wrote her the whole story.

The letter I received in reply was quite characteristic of my aunt's curiously mixed character. Of course, she wrote, it was every one's duty to be religious, but there was no need of parading one's religion, and it was a great pity Mr. Studley had offended his father by so doing. He ought to have remembered that St. Paul became all things to all men. There was no knowing how Ned might have influenced his father for good if he had only been more complying to the old gentleman's humors, but all young persons nowadays seemed to think themselves wiser than their elders. She little thought she was sending me to such a life. Why had not Mr. Studley applied to Sir Robert, who might have obtained for him a commission, or some place about the court, which would at least have given me the position of a lady? She was glad to see that I was resigned to my change of fortune, but she pitied me from her heart. She only wished I had been as fortunate as Betty was likely to be.

"So she hath a match in hand for Betty," said my husband, returning me the letter.

"She will never make any match for Betty that Betty does not like," I answered. "Betty is made of different stuff from poor Meg. She is stronger both in body and in will. She may break, but she will not bend."

"But do you think your aunt would force on Betty a match which she did not like?" asked Edward.

"Yes, if she thought it for her good, as she says; that is, if the man were rich or great, and able to give Betty a grand position in the world. That was all she thought of with Meg. When Lord Chesterton first proposed for Meg, he was a rake and an out and out infidel. Yet my aunt accepted him eagerly, because, as I say, he was rich and would make his wife a great lady. But my aunt will never rule Betty as she did Meg."

"Then you do not think Margaret's heart was in the match with Lord Chesterton?" said my husband.

"Not one bit," I answered. "As I look back at it, I can see that Margaret felt she was dying at any rate, and so it did not greatly matter. Afterward, when she was ill at Cross Park, I believe she really did come to love Lord Chesterton, but he was a changed man then. I never in my life saw any one more altered. But I am sorry both for my aunt and Betty if this matter comes to a conflict, for neither will give way save at the last extremity."

Our winter passed away quietly enough. I had an urgent invitation to spend Christmas with my aunt, who had returned home, but my husband could not well leave the farm, and travelling was difficult in winter, so I declined. I had great pleasure in sending my aunt a hamper of cream cheese, butter, and other dairy products, the work of my own hands, and was gratified in return by a present of books, music, and working materials, and from my uncle ten guineas in a pretty purse.

My uncle even wrote a few lines which were worth more than the money. He said, that, while he was sorry for Edward's misfortunes, he was glad to learn that the young fellow had behaved like a man in standing by his colors, and he liked him all the better. Any thing but these sneaks who were ready to worship the Devil himself to curry court favor. He hoped to be in a position to give us some help before long, and meantime we must keep up a good heart. This letter was a great pleasure to me, for I was always fond of my uncle.

As I said, our winter passed quietly enough. Dr. Kirton had really sent us the harpsichord, and quite a library of old-fashioned music-books. I found some time for practice; and I amused myself, and I hope did some good, by practising with the choir, and instructing the school-children in church music. Dr. Dean was not at all musical, and the singing had been something dreadful, insomuch that the Sunday Mr. Rowson preached for us I saw him privately stop his ears, and thought he would have run out of church when the children upraised their voices in the psalm.

We heard from Mr. Rowson that Dr. Kirton did not live at Studley, and that the Hall was shut up and deserted, only that old Janey and her husband, the gardener, lived in the kitchen. The house always had the reputation of being "troubled,"—that is to say, haunted—not only by the fateful white owl, but by the spirit of a certain Moorish lady whom some of the old freebooting Studleys had brought home, and afterward deserted, or, as some said, murdered. This poor lady's apparition used to rise from the old well in one corner of the court, into which tradition said she had been thrown, and parade about the house in all her barbaric finery on moonlight nights. I used to wish I could see her, a black or copper-colored ghost would be such a pleasing novelty, but my husband says many of the Turkish ladies are beautifully fair. Anyhow, it was the general belief at Studley that Dr. Kirton had not only seen this lady, but had also been haunted by the spirit of his unfortunate sister, who could not rest in her grave, but was always coming to his bedside and adjuring him to burn the unrighteous will. He left the care of the estate to his attorney in Biddeford, and returned to Bristol.

I well remember what a sweet spring evening it was, when we received a most unexpected guest. I had walked down to the red gate to meet my husband, who was somewhat late in coming from market. I was leaning over the gate to look down the road, when I beheld a most forlorn, tired-looking woman, dragging herself up the hill. At first I thought it was old Sally the hawker, who made a practice of visiting us three or four times in a season, but, as the woman drew nearer, I saw she was a much younger person. I could not see her face under her deep hood, but there was something in the figure that was strangely familiar. Seeing how feeble she seemed, I hastened to meet her.

"You are very weary," I said. "Let me help you to the gate, where there is a seat for you to rest upon." (I had always a fancy for meeting Edward at this gate, and he had made a nice bench for my accommodation.) The stranger accepted my arm, and leaned on it heavily enough, till she reached the seat, when she sank upon it as if fainting. I hastily untied her hood, and pushed it back from her face. What was my amazement and even horror to recognize my cousin Betty!

There was no one in sight, and I dared not leave her lest she should fall to the ground. I was considering what to do, when I heard my husband's voice asking what was the matter. I never was more glad to see him in my life, and that is saying a great deal.

"How shall we get this poor thing to the house?" said I.

"The house," answered Edward doubtfully. "Had we not better lay her in the barn first? She may have the fever about her."

"The barn!" said I scornfully. "Edward, it is my cousin Betty; though what has brought her here, I cannot guess. Don't stand staring there like a moorland colt," I added sharply, for Ned did indeed look like a statue of amazement. "Hurry to the house; and do you and Andrew bring down the little mattress from the green room, and a blanket. That will be the easiest way to manage it. Tell Mrs. Williams to get the blue room ready. And hurry back."

Ned went off without another word,—he is very good to mind, when I do take the command,—and the time did not seem long, even to me, till he and Andrew were back with the mattress, which they had laid on a shutter. Betty had partly come to herself, but seemed unable to speak. Only, as they tried to lift her, she moaned and grasped my hand tightly.

"Don't be afraid, Betty," said I. "You are with friends, and I won't leave you."

We carried her up-stairs, where Mrs. Williams helped me to undress her. And with much ado we got her into bed, and persuaded her to swallow a few spoonfuls of good broth. The fainting fit was succeeded by hysterics, and that by bitter weeping. I did not try to make her talk, but coaxed and soothed her, till at last she fell asleep; and I went down to my husband.

"Well," said he, as I entered the kitchen, "what does it all mean?"

"I don't know, though I have a shrewd guess," I answered. "I have not tried to make her speak. She is fearfully exhausted. She must have walked a long way, for her shoes are cut to pieces."

"But you are sure it is your cousin," said Ned. "You could hardly be mistaken, though she comes in such a strange way."

"Mistaken!" said I scornfully. "Do you think I would not know you, though you were to fall out of a comet, instead of riding home on old Soldan?"

"I doubt it," answered my husband. "If I fell out of a comet, I doubt I should be past recognition by the time I reached you."

"Not you! You would be on your feet in a minute, making an instructive reflection," I retorted. "Come now and get your supper, for I know you must be half starved, and then we will think what is best to do."

We talked the matter over, and agreed that nothing could be done till Betty was able to tell her own story. I watched with her. She was restless and moaning in her sleep till near morning, when she grew quieter and seemed to fall into a refreshing slumber. When she waked, she was quite herself, but so weak and exhausted that I dared not let her talk. Only I asked her if her mother knew where she was.

She shook her head. "No, no, and don't tell her. Don't let her know. Hide me somewhere. Dolly, I will never go back to marry that man—never."

"Hush, hush! Don't excite yourself," said I. "You are safe with me. But think, Betty, how anxious your poor father and mother will be."

She seemed to soften at this. "Yes, I am sorry for them. But I won't marry him. I may be lost for this world and the next, but I will never marry him."

"Marry whom?" I asked.

"That man, Mr. Cheney." And here she fell into her fits again, and we had hard work to keep her in bed.

"She must be crazy," said Edward, when I told him. "Cheney's wife died last summer, I know, but surely your aunt would never give him her only child."

"He is very rich," said I, "and he sees all the best company in the county. Don't you remember what my aunt said in her last letter,—that Mr. Cheney had a prospect of being raised to the peerage?"

"Yes, because he favored the king's policy, but surely that would have no weight with Sir Robert."

"It would have great weight with my aunt, though; and Sir Robert takes all she says and does for gospel. But, Edward, ought we not to let her friends know that she is safe? They must be in terrible suspense about her."

"I think so," answered my husband. "Rowson is going to set out for Exeter to-morrow morning early. I believe I will ride with him, and carry the news myself."

I agreed that this would be the best way, and so it was settled. By evening, Betty was quite sensible, though still weak. She told me her story, as far as she knew it herself. I had guessed rightly. Mr. Cheney had proposed for her; and her mother, dazzled by his immense wealth and his prospects, had insisted on Betty's accepting him. She refused; and there had been, as I gathered, a terrible scene between them, in which Betty, goaded to desperation by her mother's calm persistence, had reproached her with being the cause of Meg's death. I knew how Betty could go on, when once roused, and could imagine more than she told me.

It ended with her being shut into her chamber, from which she escaped by climbing out of the window. She had left her hat and gloves by the side of a deep pond in the park, which had once been a quarry-hole, and had then walked the whole distance to my door. She had lost her purse the second day, and had been obliged literally to beg her way, sleeping in barns and outhouses like a gypsy beggar, and passing one night on the open moor. It made me shudder to think of the dangers she had run. I asked her if she were not frightened.

"No," she answered, "I don't know that I was. I had but one thought,—to get away, and come to you. And I will never go back to marry that man," she added, her eyes growing wild again. "I will drown myself in earnest first."

"Surely your mother would never have forced him upon you," said I.

Betty smiled bitterly. "Don't you know my mother by this time?" said she. "She would marry me to Satan if he could make me a duchess, and talk all the time about my good—yes, and make me a present of religious books for my closet at the same moment. I tell you, Dolly, only for my remembrance of Meg, I would throw over all religion as folly and delusion. But I love to think her happy, though I shall never see her."

"You must not say that," I said; "why should you not see her?"

Betty only shook her head sadly; and I was too much afraid of exciting her, to pursue the subject. She was really very ill; and Dr. Dean, who had some knowledge of medicine, thought she would have a course of low fever, though he did not apprehend any danger.

My husband returned from Lady Court the third day. He reported that my aunt seemed greatly relieved to find that Betty was not drowned, as they all believed at first. But she was very bitter, saying that Betty had disgraced herself and her family by her escapade, and she, for one, never wished to see her face again. Let her bake as she had brewed. Sir Robert was more lenient. He thought they had been hard on the girl, who was high-spirited like himself. She had better stay where she was for the present, if we would consent to keep her; and perhaps, after a while, things might be arranged. Indeed, he had never so greatly liked the match, but thought his wife knew best.

Edward remarked that Betty would have to stay where she was for the present, as she was very ill from fatigue and exposure.

"Why, how was she exposed?" asked my uncle.

Edward told the story of Betty's journey, at which Sir Robert broke down and wept, swore she was his own spunky girl, and he only wished she were a boy instead of a maid. He ended by sending Betty a kind message and some money, promising that she should not be pressed to marry any one, and saying he would ride over and see her some day.

But my aunt was not to be pacified. She was, indeed, wounded in her most susceptible part,—her respect for the opinion of the world. The story had taken wing already that Betty had drowned herself to avoid a marriage with Mr. Cheney, to whom she was betrothed. All Exeter was ringing with it. And now it must be contradicted, and some tale made up, which, after all, nobody would believe. No, she had brought lasting disgrace on all belonging to her.

"I shall never hold up my head again," she repeated. And then, weeping, "What have I ever done, that I should be so unfortunate in my children? My only consolation is that I have done every thing possible for their good."

And I believe she really thought so. She did every thing for the best, though she was so terribly mistaken as to what that best was.

Finally, my aunt was won by my husband to send her daughter a message. She forgave her all the pain she had caused her, but she did not wish to see her at present. When Betty was well, she had perhaps better go to her aunt Laneham at Bristol, where Mr. Laneham had gotten some preferment at the cathedral. Her residing in the family of a beneficed clergyman might do something toward restoring to her the character she had lost. Sharpless should send her some necessary clothes.

Betty smiled sorrowfully when she received the message, but seemed to care little about the matter. She lay for several weeks very ill, but recovered her strength after a while; though she has always been slightly lame, from the effects of her exposure. She began by and by to go about the house and to help me in various ways, but I could not get her to go to church, and hardly any thing could draw a smile from her.

At last, however, we won her confidence, and she opened her heart to us. On her first going to London, she had been very unwilling to go to the theatre or the opera, having made up her mind that these things were wrong and unbecoming a Christian, and that if, as she said, there was any thing in religion, one's life should be passed in a course of good and pious works. She had been greatly strengthened in this idea by three or four Roman Catholic books which fell in her way. Indeed, I believe they were given her by Queen Mary herself, who took a great liking to her.

Betty said she would have become a Romanist, and gone into a convent, only there were a few things she could not get over; and, above all, she could not make up her mind to think that dear Margaret was lost forever. The king himself had condescended to argue with Betty, and if his Majesty had not insisted on this point with the stupid obstinacy which always distinguished him, poor man! I dare say he would have won her over.

But by little and little, as Betty said, she was led on to go against her conscience, and to take pleasure in what she felt all the time were sinful amusements, till at last she lost all peace and hope, and came to believe that there was nothing left her but a fearful judgment. She thought that she had never possessed any true love for God, and was altogether a reprobate.

"Well," said my husband, when she paused. "What are you going to do about it?"

Betty looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked. "What can I do about it?"

"Supposing you to have been the sinner you represent yourself, there are two courses open to you," said my husband. "You may go on sinning against your heavenly Father, insulting his love and mercy, and defying him to the bitter end; or you may come to him in all humility and repentance, confessing your sins, and asking forgiveness through him who hath said, 'He that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out,' and then spending the rest of your life humbly in his service and to his glory. You have the choice of these two ways. Which will you do?"

Betty looked very doubtful. "But I never can go back and marry that man, even if he would have me, which I doubt."

"So do I, seeing he hath already married some one else," answered my husband. "I would not say you are bound to do so in any case, though I do think you ought to ask your mother's forgiveness for the pain you caused her by your pretended suicide. It was a wicked piece of deception, and I don't wonder your conscience is oppressed."

Betty colored. It is one thing to call yourself a lost sinner, and another to have particular sins brought home to you by somebody else. She began to excuse herself, but broke off, and at last owned frankly that it was very wrong.

"But I had not thought so much about that as about my life in London," said she,—"all those worldly compliances."

"You should have treated them as Meg did,—as so many crosses,—and then they would have done you no harm," said I. "They did not hurt Margaret. Or, if you thought them wrong, you could have told your mother so in gentle and respectful language."

"I know I did not do right in any thing, either in refusing or giving way," answered Betty, "but O Dolly, I was hard bestead, and I had no one to help me."

"Except God," added my husband. "That is a grave exception. But we will admit all that, Betty. You have been a great sinner, like all the rest of us, and your only hope is in the undeserved mercy of God. You can make no amends to him."

"That is the worst of it," said Betty.

"No, my maid, that is the best of it," replied Edward. "You can do nothing, and there is no need that you should, since One hath done all for you."

And with that he went on to set before Betty the plan of our redemption, all its freeness and fulness, as he had once set it before me. But I think it was harder for Betty to take it in than it had been for me. One day we were sitting in the porch with our spinning,—for she was bent upon learning all sorts of country arts, and I had taught her to spin as Mrs. Williams had taught me. Betty was very sad and not inclined to talk, and I did not urge her.

We were sitting thus, when old Alice Yeo came for her jug of milk. She was a good old body, who lived in a little cottage on the farm, and eked out a living by the help of the church dole and what little she could earn by spinning and knitting. She was lame, and seldom came so far as our house, generally sending by one of the schoolgirls, who were very kind to her.

"Why, Goody, this is a wonder!" said I, rising to help her up the step and give her a seat. "You don't often walk so far."

"No, mistress, but the fine day tempted me, and I thought I would like to see the place once more. Mussy, how the myrtle trees have grown, to be sure! Great trees they be now, but I remember well when Mary Lee and I planted them, when she came here a bride sixty years and more agone. Ay, and she planted yonder pinks, too, that very time. ¹ A sweet and gracious maid she was, and a dutiful wife, but she did not live long: she died with her first babe."

¹ I know of a bed of pinks which was planted a hundred and thirty years ago.

"Poor thing!" said Betty.

"Oh, you need not pity her, my lamb! She died happy, yes, rejoicing, and she saw the room full of angels. I was with her, and it was like a look into heaven. No, no, you needn't pity her. She went to her rest sixty years ago, and I have lived to bury husband and children and all. But you need not pity me, neither," she added, with the sweet, tremulous smile of gracious old age. "I will soon be at home; and then it won't matter whether the way thither was long or short, rough or smooth: 'twill be home all the same.—Mistress, could you spare me ere a bit of honey now? My cough gets troublesome of nights again, and the honey and hyssop do seem to loosen it like."

I brought her the honey, and some other little matters I had laid aside for her, and sent Peggy home with her to carry her jug down the hill. When I came back to my seat, Betty was gazing abroad over the sea. She was silent a little, and then said abruptly,—

"Dolly, I would give sight and hearing and all I possess, to be as happy as that old woman."

"You have no need to give any of these things," I answered; "you have only to give up self. Tell me honestly, Betty, is it not some cherished sin that keeps you back from peace? Something you know you ought to do, and will not do?"

Betty withdrew her eyes from the sea, and fixed them on her spinning.

"You think I ought to write to my mother and beg her pardon," said she, after a little silence.

"Yes," I answered, "and so do you."

Her color rose. "Oh, yes, of course!" said she. "You think I should say I am sorry I did not please her by marrying that man."

I began to lose patience. "Betty, you know better," said I. "Mr. Cheney is married already, so there is no question of that. You know that by your own showing you used very unbecoming and even cruel language to your mother. You ought to beg her pardon for that, and for the still more cruel deception you played upon her and your father, by making them believe you were drowned."

"But my mother was wrong in trying to force me into a match with a man I disliked. Even you admit that, Dolly," said Betty.

"Two wrongs do not make a right," I answered. "Your business is not with what your mother did, but what you did. And I tell you plainly that till you forgive your mother, and ask her to pardon you, you have no right to expect peace or even forgiveness. 'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.' Pride and anger and the peace of this world cannot dwell together, much more the peace of God."

I went away and left her to think of my words, nor did I encourage her to talk further about the matter. Two or three days afterward she was in her room nearly all day. At night she brought me a letter, and asked me to read it.

"No, I would rather not," said I. "Write such a letter as you think will be pleasing to your heavenly Father, and then it will be sure to be right."

She thought a little, and then, taking up the letter, she tore it to pieces. I heard her moving several times in the night. In the morning she brought me another letter, sealed this time, and asked Edward to have it sent. He held her hand a moment as he took it, and looked into her face.

"It is all right now," said he.

"I hope so," she answered, smiling, though her eyes were moist, "but oh, it has been a hard fight, and I fear all is not yet won."

"I dare say not," my husband answered. "Such battles often have to be fought many times over, and Satan never attacks us with more vehemence than when we have just humbled ourselves to some fellow sinner."

"I suppose that is true," said Betty, "but in truth, cousin, I never tried it many times. I don't know that I ever did unless I were forced to it."

"I know. You and Meg were different in that," said I. "She was always ready to ask pardon, even when she was the least to blame."

"We were different in every respect, except for the love we bore each other," said Betty, sighing. "I know when we had a difference, and I had been far the most in fault, she would ask me to forgive her. But, cousin, will you send this letter for me?"

"That I will gladly," he answered; and, it being market-day, he posted it that very morning.

The answer was not long in coming. I watched Betty with some anxiety as she read it, and saw her color rise, and her eyes fill with tears. When she had finished, she handed it to me. My aunt said that, as Betty had asked for forgiveness, she must grant it, of course. She supposed Betty was weary of her rustication, and wished to come home, but that could not be at present. If she were tired of the country, she could go to her aunt Laneham at Bristol, who would no doubt receive her.

Betty had gone to her own room, leaving the letter with me. I handed it to Edward with an expression of indignation.

"It is a cruel letter," said I; "and not like my aunt at all. She was formerly always ready to forgive, when any one made submission."

"I can read between the lines," answered Edward. "Your aunt's conscience is uneasy. She knows she has been wrong herself, and she has not the courage to say as much, so she takes it out in this way. She will come to a better mind, after a while. I am glad Betty is here, and not at home."

"She seems very contented," said I. "How handily she takes to every sort of work! It seems as though she had found her true vocation."

"Like somebody else I know," returned my husband. "What a farmer's dame had been lost to the world, Dolly, if you had married a great man!"

The summer wore on very quietly. We had a visit from my uncle, who staid with us two or three days, and seemed to enjoy his visit. My aunt wrote to Betty by him in a much more kindly strain, making no allusion to her fault, and sending her a pretty present. She said nothing, however, about Betty's coming home, nor did Sir Robert encourage it for the present. Betty sent her mother a pair of fine hose of her own spinning and knitting, and received a kind note in reply, but still nothing was said about her going home.

But it soon became apparent that Betty was likely to have a home of her own, unless somebody interfered to prevent. Mr. Rowson had admired her very much from the first. After a while, they came to an understanding. And the next time Sir Robert came over, he made proposals for Betty's hand. He was very well to do. His living was a good one for those parts, and he had quite a nice little private fortune. His family was respectable; and, though there was a good deal of difference in their ages, it was on the right side.

I could see at once that Sir Robert was taken with Mr. Rowson. He talked with Betty in private, and also with Edward and me, and assured Mr. Rowson that his good word should not be wanting to his suit.

"I fear her mother will not be pleased at Betty's marrying a parson," remarked my uncle to me at parting, "but I will do my best to persuade her, and the maid shall have her way. Methinks we have made enough of sacrifices to the world, which will never make any for us."

"Nor for any one else," remarked Edward. "The world is a bad paymaster."

"I believe you are right, nephew," said my uncle thoughtfully. "I shall always think that last season in London was the death of poor Meg. I would not say so to her mother, since she acted for the best, but I believe if the maid had staid quietly at home, she might have been alive now. Well, good-by, young folks, and God bless you! My wife pities your lot, but I must say you appear as well to do as anybody I know. I shall never forget your kindness to my poor daughter. And between ourselves, I would, for my own part, a hundred times rather see Betty wed to an honest fellow like Rowson, country parson though he be, than to Cheney, who hath got his peerage by declaring himself a Papist. I don't know what the world is coming to, for my part. I have always stood by Church and king, but as things are going now—But there, I must not stay longer, or I shall be benighted on the moor.—Keep up a good heart, Bess. It will all come right in time."

Contrary to all our expectations, my aunt made no objections to the match, but gave her consent and blessing without delay. In fact, I think she was very glad that she had an opening for a reconciliation. She would have Betty married from home, and we must all go to the wedding. It was in the farmer's holiday, between haying and harvest, and we were not afraid to leave our matters in such good hands as those of Mrs. Williams and Andrew.

My aunt received us with the greatest kindness; and no one would have guessed, from her manner, that Betty had not been away on an ordinary visit. Perhaps it was the best way on the whole.

Mr. Rowson had a cousin living in Exeter, the dowager Lady Peckham, who was well-jointured and much respected, though she went little into society, and was accounted a bit of a Puritan. I think this connection did something to reconcile my aunt to the match. Lady Peckham was at the wedding, as were also the bishop and his lady, and Mr. Studley's old friend Lady Clarenham: so it was quite a grand affair. I don't think all the parade was to Betty's taste, but her mother would have it so, and Betty gave way to her in every thing, as was but right.

It must have been rather pleasing to her to hear the reprobation which was poured from every side on my Lord Viscount Cheney (I know it was to me), but she made no sign thereof.

Lord Cheney was in London, in great favor at court, where the king was going from bad to worse. His Majesty was at open feud with both the universities, and the clergy (even those who had been most active in preaching passive obedience to the worst of kings) took sides with their colleges. It makes so very much difference whether it is yourself or somebody else that is to be passively obedient. The king had an army encamped on Hounslow Heath, for the purpose, as was said, of overawing the city, which was not overawed at all, but only enraged. The Dissenters were openly courted, and some of them even appeared in court, but the leaders among them, like Mr. Baxter and Dr. Bates, stood aloof, and made no response to the king's advances. The Bishop of Exeter still clung to the hope that matters would be accommodated, but his clergy were open enough in their expressions of discontent; and the dean had declared plainly that the Prince of Orange, Calvinist as he was, would be better than the rule of the Jesuits,—which was what every one thought we were coming to.

It was like coming into a new world to me, who had lived so quietly for the past year and more. I must say I found it very amusing for a little, but I soon tired of the bustle and fuss, and was not a bit sorry to get back to my quiet home again. Betty was to make a little visit at home, and then to Mr. Rowson's old mother, who lived not far from Bath. We employed the time of her absence in putting the parsonage in nice order, and disposing therein the furniture my uncle sent over. The house was a good one, though not large, but Mr. Rowson's housekeeping had been but slack, even for a bachelor, and such a looking place I never saw as Mrs. Williams and I found when we went over.

By good luck, the old housekeeper went off in dudgeon at the news of her master's marriage: so we had the place to ourselves, and soon put it in nice order. Peggy's eldest sister had grown tired of living in a town, and had come home. She was a staid, capable body, and was glad to get a service near her mother, who was growing old: so we installed her in the kitchen, with a little maiden from the school under her. And when Betty came home, she found every thing in readiness, even to the supper.

I think she has always been happy in her new life. She takes great interest in parish matters, and hath set up a good school which she superintends herself, though her two babes, which might almost as well be twins, give her plenty to do. Her mother has visited her more than once, and they are the best of friends. Betty has never told her what she told Edward and me, that Mr. Rowson refused the offer of being a minor canon at Exeter, which came to him shortly after his marriage.

"It would only vex her," said she, "and what is the use? I can tell you, Dolly, since I had that one to deal with," pointing to her elder child, who is a little pickle, "I begin to understand what I owe to my mother. I think she mistook in many things, but as I call to mind her kindness and self-sacrifice and patience, I cannot too deeply repent my own perverseness."

"In not marrying Lord Cheney?" said I mischievously.

"You know better than that," she answered, laughing. "I would not change my poor parson for any lordling in the land, much less for him whom I always hated. But I might have refused in a different manner; and I can see, in a hundred instances, how I set myself up against my mother merely for the sake of contradiction. Yes, indeed, Mrs. Peggy, there, has opened my eyes to a great many things I never should have seen but for her."

But I am spinning out my story so long that I fear none of my descendants will have the patience to read it. We lived at the farm for a year longer, prospering on the whole; though we had to work hard for what we got, and had our ups and downs like other folks. We heard nothing from Dr. Kirton, except that his agent had raised all the rents and exacted them pitilessly. Dr. Kirton himself never came near the Hall, which was now quite shut up and deserted; for Janey's husband had died, and she would not stay alone, and no one else could be found to brave the terrors of the ghosts, which, according to the old servants and tenants, made a parade-ground of the Hall. Janey came to us and took up her abode with old Alice, who was altogether bedridden and needed someone to wait on her.

As I said, we lived on quietly, and heard only distant echoes of the storm which was muttering and gathering at home and abroad. When my husband rode to Biddeford market, he generally brought home the "Gazette,"—which, however, told us little, being under such close censorship,—and two or three news-letters lent him by Master Gifford. From them we heard of the stirring events in London, of the Declaration of Indulgence, the arrest of the bishops and their acquittal, and the mad conduct of the king and his Jesuit advisers, which men said were by no mean approved by the Pope.

I had ridden to Biddeford with my husband, and was busy in Master Gifford's shop, selecting some household matters, and talking with our good old friend and his wife, when a foreign looking man, with the unmistakable gait of a sailor, came in and asked for Master Gifford.

"I am Master Gifford, at your service," said the merchant.

Now, a foreign sailor is no sight at all in Biddeford, and I turned away carelessly enough to speak to my husband who had just come in. At the sound of his voice, the stranger turned hastily around.

"Ned!" said he with a curious tremor in his voice. "Surely this is Edward Studley."

"Edward Studley, at your service, sir," said my husband, but in a moment his face changed, and he looked like one who saw a ghost.

"Don't you know me, Ned?" said the stranger. "I should have known you, had I met you in Barbary."

"If a man can rise from the dead, this is my uncle Philip," exclaimed Edward, catching him by the hand. "Is it really you in substance of the body?"

"Even as you see," said the sailor, with a mighty shake of the hand, which left no doubt of his corporeal substance. "It is Philip Bassett himself, escaped not from death, but from long captivity, well nigh as hopeless as death."

It may be guessed what a welcome we gave to our uncle, whom every one had mourned as dead. There was not room for many words, for we had to be on our way home. Mr. Bassett looked surprised when we took the road to Applecoombe.

"How is this?" said he. "This was not the road to Studley in my time."

"Nor is it now," answered Edward. "We are living at Applecoombe."

"At Applecoombe," repeated uncle Philip. "What, you have parted company with the old gentleman at last! Well, no one can blame you."

"My father is dead," said Edward briefly.

Mr. Bassett said no more, but began asking about different neighbors as we passed one house and another on the road. It was not till we were seated by ourselves after supper that he began again.

"But if your father is dead, Ned, how does it happen that you are living here? Why are you not on your own estate?"

"Because I have no estate," answered Edward. "My father disinherited me, and left all his property to his second wife and her brother. He gave me nothing but my black horse, and my mother's old harpsichord."

"Disinherited you!" exclaimed uncle Philip. "He could no more disinherit you than he could the king of England. The whole estate belonged to you by your grandfather's will, though your father had the use of it for his life without reserve."

Edward colored high. "How did it happen that I never knew that?" he asked.

"By the terms of the will the matter was to be kept secret till you were five and twenty," answered Mr. Bassett. "I don't know that your father was obliged to tell you even then, though that was certainly implied. I wonder old Mr. Winne, the lawyer in Exeter, did not advise you how matters stood."

"The old gentleman died before my father, who took his business out of Mr. Winne's hands some years before," answered Edward. "Naturally young Winne did not care to meddle in the matter unasked. But are you sure?"

"As sure as that I sit here," replied Mr. Bassett. "My father was one of the witnesses to the will. Kirton hath no more right to the estate than my old master in Tripoli."

"We must look into the matter," said my husband. "To-morrow, if you are able, we will ride to Exeter and take council with Mr. Winne, who hath his father's business, and is an honest man. But now tell us of your adventures. Were you really a slave in Tripoli?"

"That I was for five long years, and might be to this day, only that my master took me to sea with him. We were wrecked off Sardinia, and my poor master was drowned. He was a kind, charitable old man, and made my life as easy as might be. The ship was got off, but I slipped overboard in the confusion, and swam to the shore. There I abode for near a year longer, till I got a chance to ship for Marseilles, where I found an English vessel, and worked my way home, without a tester in my pocket,—not like the uncle in the story-book, who comes home with his pouch full of gold, you see, niece."

"You have brought news which is better than gold," I answered; "and if you had brought nothing but yourself, you would be more than welcome."

My husband had left the room at some call from Andrew, and I took the chance to tell Mr. Bassett how Edward had gone to Turkey to look for him, having heard that he had been seen in Constantinople.

"Ay, that was like Ned," said Mr. Bassett. "But why did his father cast him off at last?"

"Because he was bewitched, I think," I answered, and told him the story.

"Ay, so," he said thoughtfully. "As there is nothing so good as a good woman, so I believe there is nothing so bad as a wicked woman. But we shall soon set all to rights now. Kirton will not have a leg to stand on. I doubt if he shows any fight at all."

The next day my husband and his uncle rode to Exeter, found Mr. Winne, and examined the will. It was so perfectly explicit that there was no room for mistake. The proper steps were taken; and, as Mr. Bassett had predicted, no opposition was made. Indeed, Dr. Kirton never made his appearance at all, but fled from Bristol, where he had contrived to victimize a good many people. Even his attorney at Biddeford lost money by him, or so he said; though people in general were of the opinion that he had feathered his own nest pretty well, and some did not scruple to say that he had known the truth all along.

It may be guessed with what feelings we repaired to Studley Hall to take possession of our rights. Great depredations had taken place by cutting of timber and the like, and both Edward and Mr. Bassett groaned over the loss of favorite trees. There had even been a threat at one time of pulling down the Hall, but it had not been carried out; and the old house stood safe and stately in its grove of nut-trees.

How strange it seemed to walk freely through the rooms and the garden, and feel that they were all our own! In turning out the room where poor Rebecca died, I discovered in a secret cupboard in the wall some valuable jewels and quite a sum of money. I had no mind to profit by the poor thing's riches, which might be, for aught I knew, the wages of iniquity; and, with my husband's approval, I gave them all to Mr. Rowson, to be laid out on the new schoolhouse which was then a-building.

As misfortunes never come single, so good fortune sometimes hath its flood tides; and thus it was with us. The poor old Hall needed a deal of repairing to make it comfortable, or even habitable, but where was the money to come from? As may be guessed, Kirton had left no money behind him. We were considering the matter of ways and means, when I received a letter from London with surprising intelligence. Mr. Harpe, the attorney to whom my mother had intrusted her little all, was dead, and had left me by will seven hundred pounds, and a house at Hackney. I was never more surprised in my life. His nephew, who was also his heir and executor, wished me to come to London, and attend to the business which must be gone through. The young man wrote very politely, I must say, and enclosed funds to pay the expenses of the journey.

"How in the world came this man to leave you such a little fortune?" asked Edward, when I gave him the letter. "What was he to you?"

"A thief and a robber," I answered. "Don't you remember my telling you the story of my poor mother's little property, which was put into his hands?"

"Well, he hath restored it two-fold, at least," said my husband.

"Small thanks to him for restoring what he could no longer keep," I answered. "My thanks are due to God and to this man's honest executor, but not at all to him, that I can see. What shall we do about it? It is not a very convenient time for you to leave home."

"And I suppose you will not go without me," said Edward, "not even with uncle Philip for escort."

"That I won't," I answered. "Don't flatter yourself that you are going to get off so easily as that. Uncle Philip may stay and see to the farm, and protect Mrs. Williams from the Irish, who so haunt her imagination."

There was great talk about this time, of the Irish whom the king was bringing over to recruit his army, and stragglers from the new levies were straying about the country. Much more to be pitied than feared they were, for the most part, poor things! For they could speak hardly any English, and the people feared and hated them in equal proportion.

A couple of them had come as far out of the way as Applecoombe, and had asked for food humbly enough, poor fellows! And Edward, finding them willing to work, and apt to learn, had found them something to do about the farm. They had not shown the least evil disposition during the few days they had been with us. On the contrary, they had shown themselves very grateful for their rations of brown bread and buttermilk, and their beds of clean straw in a shed.

But Mrs. Williams would not be persuaded that they were not the advance-guard of a band of marauders coming to murder us. Nor did she seem much consoled when Mr. Rowson, who loves to tease her, reminded her that if it were settled in the immutable decrees that she was to be murdered by wild Irishmen, the sending away of Dennis and Patrick O'Finnegan would do nothing to reverse it. However, they have staid with us to this day, and have never yet murdered any one, or done any harm, except by their blunders now and then.

Well, it was finally settled that we were to go to London by sea, from Exmouth, with a captain whom Edward knew, leaving uncle Philip and Andrew to garrison the farmhouse, and protect Mrs. Williams. We set out about the middle of September, visiting my uncle by the way, and receiving from my aunt a string of commissions for matters from the London shops. We had rather a stormy voyage, but finally arrived in safety about the first of October, and took lodgings near my Lady Corbet's old house, with a widow lady with whom I had some acquaintance.

When we discovered what a scene of excitement and confusion we were come into, we almost wished ourselves at home again. It had now become an open secret that a number of peers, spiritual and temporal, had united in an invitation to the Prince of Orange, who was making great preparations for invading England. The king, who for a long time had treated with contempt the warnings of King Louis and his other friends on the Continent, had become suddenly awake to his danger, had dismissed some of his advisers, and ordered others to keep out of the way, and had thus late in the day brought forward proofs of the legitimacy of the poor little baby Prince of Wales, which nobody believed in any the more for all his pains. It was a little curious, by the way, that he who had taken so much pains to throw doubts on the legitimacy of his first wife's children should have so much trouble in proving the birth of this child.

Every one, even those who have since been bitterly opposed to him, was praying for a favorable wind for the prince. The fruit and flower girls made their profit of the occasion; for oranges were bought at any price the vendors chose to ask, and every man who could procure one had some kind of yellow flower in his hat or button-hole, while orange ribbons and orange plumes were flaunted in the park under the very nose of the king.

We found the younger Mr. Harpe to be a very sober young gentleman, disposed to do every thing in his power for those whom his uncle had wronged. The man had been worse than I had ever supposed; for it turned out, upon examination, that Mrs. Price had actually left to my mother a house worth at least two hundred pounds, and the same amount in money; so that, after all, Mr. Harpe had left me only my exact due. Mr. John Harpe insisted on paying interest for Mrs. Price's legacy, and, indeed, showed himself in every thing as honest and open-handed as his uncle had been the reverse. But there is always more or less delay in all legal proceedings; and one week dragged on after another, and still we were kept in town. Oh, how I did hate the dirt and the smoke and the smells, and long for a breath of Devon air and a good drink of Devon milk!

I did not forget my aunt's commissions. And, going out one day about some of them, I made my way to Mr. Jackson's shop, where I found Ursula behind the desk. She looked old and worn, and her fretful expression had grown upon her. She pretended not to recognize me at first; and, when I made myself known to her, she affected great surprise at seeing me in town, and asked what had brought me. I told her I had come up with my husband to look after some property which had fallen to me.

"Oh, so you are married, after all!" said she. "And who is the happy man?"

"Mr. Studley of Studley Hall in North Devon," I told her.

"What! He who was my Lady Clarenham's gentleman-usher? I wonder your aunt should have allowed you to make such a match as that. But I suppose after her own daughter went to the bad—" She saw something in my face, I suppose, and she checked herself with, "But perhaps, after all, it was not so bad as people said."

"I don't know what you mean, or what people say," I answered warmly. "I know that my cousin is most respectably and happily married, and living in her own house, if you call that going to the bad. But you are just the same Ursula, I see, always with a wonderful tale to somebody's disadvantage."

"And you are the same Dolly, always flying out at nothing," she retorted. And then, more gently, "But don't let us quarrel when we have not met for so long. I only repeated what I had heard. I am sure I am glad it is not true. Come into my parlor, and sit awhile; it does me good to see an old friend."

I did not want any words with her, and something about her made me feel sorry for her: so I followed her into a back parlor, behind the shop, with loopholed doors by which she could keep an eye on the shopmen. Here she would have me sit down, and brought out some cake and wine. I asked after her father.

"My father is well, but very feeble, and hardly ever comes near the shop," she answered. "My uncle and aunt Pendergast are staying with us at present. These are fine times for us Dissenters, Dolly. We are courted of both sides alike."

"So I hear," I answered, "but Mr. Jackson is not a Dissenter. How is he?"

"Well enough," she answered carelessly. "He is at the docks about some goods just come in, or I should not be sitting here in comfort. But I made my bed, and I must lie on it, I suppose. We poor slaves of wives must take what we can get, and be thankful."

"I am quite content to take what I get," I answered. "I have the best husband in the world."

"I am glad you think so," said Ursula more gently; "and indeed, Dolly, you do look as though things had gone well with you."

I asked her about my Lady Corbet.

"Oh, yes, poor thing, she is in town! You had better go and see her, Dolly: she often speaks of you."

"I certainly shall do so," I said. "But how is she prospering?"

"As well as a woman can who has married a gambler and drunkard, and sees her money melting away in his grasp. But that she hath property of which he can touch only the income, I believe she would have been in an almshouse before now. He never goes near her except when he wants to coax or bully a few guineas out of her. He would have her give up her house, but she clings to that, and there you will find her, like a mouse under a bushel. But here comes my amiable lord and master."

In effect, we heard the next moment a sharp voice in the shop asking for Mrs. Jackson, and in the same breath scolding the shopman for allowing the sun to shine on a piece of camlet.

"But 'twould be all the same to you, or your mistress either, if it were cloth of gold or velvet of Genoa. Nothing goes right when my eye is turned away for a minute."

He opened the door with a frown on his face, which he tried hard to turn into an amiable smile when Ursula presented me to him. He looked littler and meaner than ever. I could not but remember poor Mr. Andrews, whose honest love had been so slighted. Certainly he had had an escape.

As soon as I could, I went to seek my old mistress. I found her living as Ursula had said, like a mouse under a bushel, in one corner of the old house, attended by a vinegar-faced waiting-woman,— a great contrast, certainly, to former days. The poor old lady looked older and more pinched than ever, with her false locks, and the youthful laced cap for which she had exchanged her widow's veil. She gave me a warm welcome, and really seemed glad to hear of my well doing. By and by the waiting damsel left the room, and then she asked me if I knew any thing of Mrs. Williams. I told her my old friend was living with me, and I hoped would always do so.

"Ay, she always loved you," said my lady. "She did not like my marrying again, and I gave her warning for something she said, but I never meant her to go. However, she and Sir Philip Morley would never have agreed, so it is just as well. Sir Philip is like other young men, but we must make allowances, we must make allowances. He has a great many engagements, and cannot give me as much of his company as we could both wish, but he is kind to me, oh, yes, he is kind to me, whatever people may say!"

Somehow I liked the poor old body all the better for making the best of her bad bargain, instead of complaining of him as Ursula Jackson had done. She kept me a long time, asking all about my marriage, and really showing more interest in me than she had ever done before. I was about to take my leave, when she toddled to her cabinet, and, after some hunting, brought out a very pretty case of silver-gilt spoons, which I remembered as having adorned the table on great occasions. She gave them to me, saying she always meant I should have them some day, and they might do for a wedding present. They were small, but very heavy and prettily wrought, and I was admiring them, when I heard a man's step on the stairs, and my lady said rather hurriedly,—

"There, put the box in your pocket, child."

I obeyed instinctively the old sharp tone of command, as Sir Philip Morley entered. I knew him in a moment, though he was changed and grown stout.

Could this be the man I had once fancied I loved,—this debauched looking ruffler? He greeted his wife carelessly enough, and then turned to me.

"And who have we here? As I live by bread, 'tis my old flame, pretty Mrs. Dolly!"

"Mrs. Studley, if you please, sir," I answered, with a courtesy, and by no means relishing the freedom of his address.

"Oh, ho! We are married, and we stand on our dignity," said Sir Philip with a laugh. "Well, 'tis a pretty dignity, and does not misbecome you. Mrs. Studley, since that is the style, I trust I see you well and happy?"

"Very well and very happy, thank you," I answered.

"And how long have you worn the rosy chain of Hymen, may I ask?" said he with a sneering laugh. "For of course it is a rosy chain; we all know that, eh, Felicia?" turning a mocking glance on his poor wife, who seemed divided between joy and terror.

"I have been married about two years," I answered concisely. I felt more and more disgusted with him every moment, as he went on paying me compliments, and seasoning them with ironical speeches to his wife.

My husband had promised to call for me, and I never listened more eagerly for his knock than I did then. He came at last, and I bade my poor old mistress farewell. I never saw her again. I did see Sir Philip once more, as I have good reason to remember.

For my part I was not at all sorry to have met him again, and that without a single feeling save of shame that I should ever have thought of loving him. I don't think, after all, that he was so very much changed: it was my eyes that were opened.

As we were walking home that afternoon (it was the 7th of November), we observed an unusual commotion in the streets. Men were gathered in knots, shaking hands and exchanging looks and words of congratulation, as on some most joyful event. My husband asked one man,—whose dark face, and hat pulled over his brow, showed that he, at least, took no share in the general joy,—what had happened.

"The Devil hath broke loose,—that is all," answered the man, as he turned away.

My husband asked another the same question.

"'Tis that the Lord hath sent deliverance to his people. Praised be his name that I have lived to see it!" replied the old man.

Whereupon the first cursed him for a traitor and an old Roundhead, and I believe would have struck him, had not Edward interposed. So differently was the coming of the Prince of Orange looked upon. But the number of those who mourned was as nothing to those who rejoiced. We hastened to our lodgings, for the mob were already giving signs of turbulence.

That night a chapel not far from us was sacked, the images and furniture thrown into the street and burned, and the priests obliged to fly for their lives.

But the tumult that night was nothing to what followed the flight of the king. The Prince of Orange fairly scared the poor king into running away, much as I have seen our big tom-cat drive a rival and intruder out of the garden by merely looking at him and growling. The queen and the poor little baby were sent away first, under the escort of a Frenchman named Lauzin; and then the king slipped off in the night. He did his best to leave anarchy behind him, by throwing away the great seal, and writing to Feversham to disband the army. ¹

¹ James denied afterward that he meant to disband the army, but his letter could hardly be construed to mean any thing else.

As soon as it became known that the king had fled, every thing was done that could be done to preserve order, but in vain. That night, the longest in the year as it happened, London was a scene of terrible confusion. All the Roman Catholic chapels and religious houses, of which many had sprung up during the last three years, were sacked and burned; and the inmates hardly escaped with their lives. The same fate befell the mansions of the Spanish ambassador and several other foreign ministers, and many private houses were burned and plundered. The mischief was mostly done by that army of human vermin which seems to infest all the chinks and cracks of great cities, and in part by the apprentices, always ready for mischief.

The next day, London looked as though it had been taken by storm. Our house, a very plain one in a quiet street, was not even threatened. But Mr. Jackson's shop was plundered, and he himself beaten and abused,—it was said, by his own shopmen and apprentices, who certainly were not likely to love him. Lady Corbet's house was also assaulted; and though the mob were diverted from it, by the attack upon Wild House, the poor old lady was so frightened that she never held up her head again, and died a few days afterward.

All day long the peers and the city government labored to restore order, and to avert the consequences of the outrages which had been committed. The Spanish ambassador, who had been the greatest sufferer, was lodged in the palace, and treated with all the observance due to the king himself. He was a sensible, good-tempered man, and accepted graciously the apologies made to him, as did the other ambassadors.

By sunset, things had fallen into a good degree of order. The poor priests and nuns had been cared for, or had found shelter with their friends, the smouldering fires had been put out, and guards were stationed in dangerous places. We began to hope for a quiet night.

Our landlady, Mrs. Jennings, who had kept close all day, ventured to go out and buy materials for a hot supper; and I was anxiously awaiting the return of Mr. Studley, who had gone to ask after poor Ursula and her husband.

He came at last, and I ran down to the door to meet him. As I opened it, I saw his face wore the pale, resolved look I knew so well; and I became conscious of a distant tumult of screams and cries of alarm.

"What now!" I exclaimed.

"Nothing, I hope, but a false alarm," answered my husband, quickly shutting and securing the door. "Help Mrs. Jennings to close all the shutters, Dolly. That is the very first thing."

If I have any talent in the world, it is for doing as I am bid. I had the lower shutters closed and barred before the words were fairly out of Edward's mouth, and ran up-stairs to do the same.

Poor Mrs. Jennings, coming up from the kitchen, with both hands full of hot beefsteak and oyster-sauce, could only stand and stare aghast.

The noise drew nearer and nearer,—such a noise as I hope never to hear again, of oaths and curses, mingled with the shrieks of women and children, and above all the cry of, "The Irish, the Irish! The Irish soldiers are coming to fire the city."

"What does it mean?" I asked, having done all I could do.

"Nothing, I hope," answered my husband. "There is a rumor that the disbanded army is on its way to sack and burn the city."

"O Lord! And he calls that nothing," exclaimed Mrs. Jennings, setting down her dishes for the convenience of wringing her hands.

"O Lord! Oh, gracious!" chorused her handmaiden. "Oh, we shall all be murdered and ravished and burned alive!" And with that she began to scream.

"Hold your tongue, Mary Anne," said her mistress sharply. "How dare you make such a noise here! And see how you are drizzling that gravy all over the floor. Go and bring up the pudding and the mince-pies before I cuff your ears."

Scared as I was, I could hardly help laughing at Mrs. Jennings's sudden change of tone, but I felt sorry for the poor maid.

"Don't make a noise, but keep perfectly quiet: that is the best way to avoid notice," said I. "You see, Mr. Studley thinks it may be a false alarm.—How did the news come, Edward?"

"Nobody seems to know," answered my husband. "To say truth, I do not believe there is much cause for fear. I met Lady Clarenham's nephew, Mr. Strangeways, who is in the Life Guards just now. He says he believes the poor Irish are too thoroughly cowed and bewildered to attempt any great mischief, even if they wished it, which is not at all certain. At all events we can do nothing but keep quiet and wait the event, commending ourselves to Divine protection."

"And that is true; and at any rate we need not leave the nice supper to be eaten by the wild Irish," said Mrs. Jennings, who I believe worships the goddess of cookery, and is indeed a worthy priestess of that divinity. "Mary Anne, you have not put the mustard on the table; and where are the pickled walnuts?"

Mary Anne muttered that one could not be thinking about such things at such a time. She believed her mistress would do so if it were the day of judgment that was coming instead of the Irish.

"To be sure I should, if mustard and walnuts were in the line of my duty," answered Mrs. Jennings sharply. "Come, now, bestir yourself."

We tried to do justice to the nice things prepared for us, but nobody could have much appetite with those dreadful sounds ringing in our ears,—cries and screams, and rushing to and fro of excited crowds, now a temporary lull and now another frightful alarm, "They are coming; the wild Irish are coming."

Edward called us all to prayers, and then we women lay down in our clothes. Poor Mary Anne was so frightened at the notion of going up to her attic that I made her sit down in the great chair in my room, where she was asleep and snoring in two minutes.

The longest night must have an end, and so did this.

When morning came, people bethought themselves to find out what they were scared at. And then it turned out, as Edward had surmised, that the whole was a false alarm. Nay, there had not been a particle of foundation for it; no Irishman had attempted any outrage, or done worse than ask for food at a farmhouse door. The report had first been spread in the suburbs by some men dressed like country wagoners. It might have passed for a silly practical joke, if the same alarm had not been given in other places, widely distant from each other. The whole matter was evidently a conspiracy, but to what end, or by whom planned, remains a mystery. ¹

¹ So it does to this day.

All this confusion and anarchy was no help to our business. And I began to think we should drag out the whole winter in London, and spend all our money before we received it. We staid on till after the capture and second escape of King James (though I don't know why I should call it an escape, since all that any one wanted of him was to run away as fast as he could), and the entry of the Prince of Orange into London.

Finally, after the Christmas holidays, and when matters were becoming a little settled, we saw the end of our business. The money, which, with the sale of the house Mrs. Price had left me, came to more than nine hundred pounds, was sent to our lawyer, Mr. Winne, in bills, as we meant to go home by coach, and did not care to have so much about us. I had executed all my aunt's commissions, and had made a farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, and to poor Ursula Jackson, the last of my old acquaintances, whose husband was still in bed from the effects of the beating he had received on the night of the riot. Ursula declared he was more scared than hurt, and I dare say she was right.

We were to travel by the fast coach, which makes the journey in three days. It seemed a very short time to me, who had been a week going over the same ground in my uncle's coach. The roads were good; and we had pleasant travelling companions in the persons of a dignified clergyman whom I had met at Bishop Lampleugh's, in Exeter, and a brother of my Lady Peckham's, Lord Carewe, who had been out of the country ever since Monmouth's rebellion, and was now going down to visit his sister. He hath since married Mrs. Winifred Evans, a very nice, pretty young lady whom Lady Peckham brought up, and who saved his life in quite a romantic way when he was lying out in the fields, after the woeful battle of Sedgemoor.

The roads were good for the time of year, as there had been a hard frost of several days' duration, and we had abundance of wraps, so we were not uncomfortable. There was something exhilarating, too, in such rapid travelling, for in many places we went at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour.

But we were not to get off without an adventure. There had been talk of highwaymen at the inn where we staid the first night. We were travelling somewhat slowly over a desolate heath, when the driver suddenly pulled up, and a voice at the window demanded our money and valuables. My husband and Lord Carewe exchanged glances.

"We will do you no harm if you will give up the money we know you have about you," said the masked horseman. "It is in vain to deny, Mr. Studley. We know that you carried away near a thousand pounds from London."

"You are mistaken," said Edward quietly. "I sent the money by sea to a merchant in Bristol a week ago."

The highwayman uttered a curse, and then demanded our watches. Dr. Bristow pulled out his, and the robber reached out his hand to receive it. In a moment Edward had him by the throat, while Lord Carewe held a pistol to his ear. His horse started from under him, and he was left hanging from the coach-door in a very uncomfortable and undignified fashion. His companion, seeing how things were going, clapped spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in a minute.

"You can't shoot," gurgled the half-choked robber. "Your pistols are stuffed."

"That is your mistake," answered Edward, in the tone of polite dignity which he always uses when offended. "They were stuffed, I grant you, but the stuffing was drawn this morning as you shall see if you offer to stir.—Doctor, will you have the kindness to tie this gentleman's hands? My wife will lend you her scarf for the purpose."

"I have what will serve even better," answered Dr. Bristow calmly, as he took from his pocket a new silk stole. "It hath never been used in the church, or I should have scruples as to putting it to so base a service," he continued, as he secured the hands of the robber, now gasping for breath under Edward's bulldog grasp of his throat. The guard at the same time tying the man's legs, he was helplessly at our mercy.

"Let us take a look at your face, my friend," said Edward, as he took the mask from the robber's countenance. I shall never forget the look of agony he bent upon me as I recognized Philip Morley. I spoke his name aloud before I thought.

"For Heaven's sake, let me go," pleaded the poor craven wretch. "Let me go, and I will never molest any one again.—O Mrs. Studley, plead for me!"

The men were obdurate at first, but Dr. Bristow and I finally prevailed with them to leave him, bound as he was, by the side of the road. We had passed a carrier's wagon about an hour before, so we knew he would be found and released before night-fall. A stout strap was substituted for the desecrated stole, which the doctor remarked would make his good sister an apron. And we left him sitting by the roadside, a pitiable object indeed. He was rescued, as we had foreseen, and told some cock-and-bull story to account for his plight. He left the country at once, and I believe has never returned.

We had no further adventures, and reached home in safety, to find all well, and Mrs. Williams quite reconciled to poor Dennis and Patrick. As the season was advanced, and so much was to be done at the Hall, we remained at Applecoombe till May, when, having let the farm to advantage, we removed to this house, where we have now lived for two or three months.

I must confess that at first I woefully missed the farm and its interests. But I soon found enough to do, and my baby's coming after so long a time filled up my cup of happiness to the brim. My good aunt is finally satisfied with my position, and takes great credit to herself for establishing me so well. I am quite willing she should do so, since it pleases her, but I can't help thinking how it would have been if she had been determined to marry me to Mr. Cheney instead of Mr. Studley. In my state of mind at that time, I should probably have been as passive as I was in marrying Mr. Studley.

Now Mr. Cheney—my lord, I should say—has fled the country, and people say has joined King James in Ireland. All his great wealth has vanished into thin air, and he hath left nothing behind him but an immense amount of unpaid bills in Exeter, and various gambling debts. His poor wife has returned to her widowed mother, who tells a pitiful story of her wrongs. Sir Robert let out the whole story the last time he and my aunt were here, and I thought it was a good deal to Betty Rowson's credit that not a look or word escaped her to say, "I told you so."

One thing I know. No considerations of worldly advantage shall ever make me force my Barbara into a match against her will. The baby is named Barbara, after my husband's mother, and my dear Bab Andrews, from whom I hear two or three times a year. She is well, and seems to be happy in the life she has chosen. Her aunt is dead, and has left her quite rich; and she hath removed to a place called Newcastle, not far from Mr. Penn's new town, which he calls Philadelphia.

Uncle Philip visited the place last year, and says it is really quite a nice village. Barbara sent me a little painting of her house, which is neat and pretty. She has a school for girls, which gives her pleasant employment. I fancy Uncle Philip would not be sorry to go into partnership with her, but I doubt Bab will never marry. However, he is going thither again next year, he having taken command of a fine ship belonging to Master Birch, in Bristol: so there is no telling what may happen.

Mrs. Williams is well and happy, and I hope may be spared to us for many years. She surprised us all by going to church when baby was christened, and has been to hear Mr. Rowson preach once or twice since. She hath her crotchets, no doubt, but I am sure a better Christian never lived in the world than Mrs. Mehetabel Williams.

Lord Chesterton was married last year to no less a person than my old school friend and pet, Mrs. Patty, Lady Clarenham's grand-niece. She has grown-up a very pretty, sweet young lady, and will make him a nice wife. He lives at home on his own estates, sees to his tenants, and is a very sober, religious gentleman, certainly a great contrast to what he was when I knew him first.

Mr. Baxter is still living, and in much easier circumstances, many of the oppressive restrictions which were laid on the Dissenters during the last two reigns having been taken off, though there is still plenty of room for improvement in their condition. Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast have gone to America, and are settled in the same town as Bab Andrews. My Lady Corbet left them quite a sum of money in her will, with which they bought land: so they are well to do. I am glad, for I always liked them. Ursula Jackson is a widow, but carries on her husband's business.

And now I come to the end of the third of these books, which I began under such different circumstances. Looking back over the way I have come, I can but thank the Guiding Hand which has led me by such unknown and untried ways to this haven of rest and peace. I thank God that he "has" led me, often sorely against my will, instead of leaving me to follow out the paths I chose for myself. Verily, He leadeth "the blind by a way they know not."

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

——————————————————

THE SWORD OF THE CAREWS By DUNCAN McCLAREN. MIDSHIPMITE CURLY DR. GORDON STABLES. THE DOG CRUSOE R. M. BALLANTYNE. PRETORIA FROM WITHIN A. J. BATTS. EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS AGNES GIBERNE. HER NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR M. COMRIE. GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES _Illustrated._ UNCLE TOM'S CABIN H. B. STOWE. THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD E. WETHERELL. THE CORAL ISLAND R. M. BALLANTYNE. BLUEBELL EMMA MARSHALL. HALF A DOZEN GIRLS A. C. RAY. HEARTS OF OAK GORDON STABLES. HALF A DOZEN BOYS A. C. RAY. THE KNIGHTS OF THE WHITE ROSE GEORGE GRIFFITH. THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN WM. LE QUEUX. LADY SYBIL'S CHOICE E. S. HOLT. THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM L. T. MEADE. LITTLE QUEENIE EMMA MARSHALL. JACK, AN ENGLISH BOY Y. OSBORN. SISTER ROSE E. S. HOLT. THE HIDDEN TREASURE L. E. GUERNSEY. A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY L. T. MEADE. THE KING'S DAUGHTERS E. S. HOLT. WAITING FOR THE BEST J. M. CONKLIN. ALL'S WELL E. S. HOLT. A REAL HERO G. STEBBING. HER HUSBAND'S HOME E. EVERETT-GREEN. ROBIN TREMAYNE E. S. HOLT. THE STORY OF MARTIN LUTHER E. WARREN. OUT IN GOD'S WORLD J. M. CONKLIN. UNDAUNTED W. C. METCALFE. WINNING AN EMPIRE G. STEBBING. WON AT LAST AGNES GIBERNE.

—————————————————— More than Sixty-six Volumes in this Series. ——————————————————

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.