CHAPTER XVI.

SURPRISES.

MORE than two months had passed since the date of the last chapter. The household of Sir John Corbet had returned to its old, regular routine. New servants had replaced the old. Sir John once more went to his office and wharf, and superintended his workmen. And his lady, like the wise dame of the Scriptures, looked well to the ways of her household, and, while she made sure that nobody from herself to the knife-boy ate the bread of idleness, took more pains than ever that every one under her roof should be happy and contented.

In the school-room there was a great change. Poor little Betty, with her moods and tenses, her alternations of high and low spirits, her unmanageable "tantrums," and her almost equally unmanageable fits of penitence, was gone. And the twins, Phyllis and Jemima, could only weep over every little memorial of their departed sister, and declare to each other that they would never, no, never tease anybody again! Paulina, still pale and thin, and showing signs of recent illness in her hollow eyes and close-cropped hair, had taken present charge of the school-room, and was hearing her sisters' lessons, finding out every day how much less she knew than she supposed, discovering the mighty difference which existed between the real crosses of her reduced strength and the daily trials of temper and patience in the school-room, and those artificial crosses she used to manufacture for herself. Nevertheless, she went on bravely, doing her best, and making herself more useful and agreeable than she had ever done before.

But Paulina had a cross to bear far harder than any petty trials of the school-room—a cross all the sharper because she had brought it upon herself and her father and mother, who shared the burden with her. The affair with Doctor Butler had taken wing, as was to be expected, and the whole city of Bristol rang with the stories of Paulina's stolen interviews with him, at chapel and elsewhere, and of the attempt to introduce him into her room. Who had chattered in the last case, nobody knew. But the scandal had gone abroad, distorted and exaggerated in a hundred forms.

Paulina, never stirred away from home, save under her mother's wing, and then only, to church, but even there she felt herself the mark for curious eyes and whispers, while her mother had to encounter condolences and questions from all her acquaintances. Moreover, Paulina was not safe even yet from persecution. It had indeed been found expedient for Doctor Butler to leave town, but the priests had no notion of giving up their victim so easily, and more than one letter had been conveyed to Paulina, now pitying her as a martyr under persecution, now threatening her as a relapsed heretic.

Meantime, a cloud rested upon her reputation. None of her young friends visited her or invited her, and Lady Corbet was blamed for permitting her to take the charge of her young sisters. Her father had been furiously angry upon hearing the story, and, though he had been brought to say at last that he forgave her, he was hard and stern toward her, and showed her constantly that she was distrusted and watched. Her mother was kindness itself, but a heavy cloud of sadness rested upon her once cheery face, and her voice, when she spoke to Paulina, had a tone of grief and pity.

All this was very hard to bear—far harder than the fasting, the lying upon the floor, and all the other penances Paulina had been accustomed to practise; harder than the being obliged to give her attention to her work and pick it out when it was wrong; than being reproved for stooping her shoulders or poking her chin, or having her shoes down at heel and her petticoats draggled. Nor was this the hardest, after all. It was with inexpressible bitterness that Paulina heard of Doctor Butler's attempt to enter her room, and of his departure from the city, and learned from the pain the news gave her that her affections were no longer in her own keeping.

Any woman worthy of the name must feel a sensation of intensest shame and anguish, when she finds herself loving one who does not care for her, even though that one may be in every way worthy; and the shame is increased twofold if the object prove utterly base. This was Paulina's case. She loved Doctor Butler, and she knew him to be a base, bad man—one who had destroyed the peace and reputation of more than one woman, and who might, but for what seemed the special interference of Providence, have done the same for her.

She recalled a hundred things which might have shown her her danger, and she felt a sense of gratitude to poor Molly, who had been so far faithful that she had never let her young mistress out of her sight. She said to herself that her love was unworthily placed, and must be conquered, but the task was a hard one, and the poor girl was indeed very unhappy.

Yet it somehow happened that the real trials did not fret Paulina's temper or wear out her patience as the imaginary ones had done. She was sad indeed, and often much depressed, but she was no longer fretful or peevish; she no longer wore her set, self-conscious expression, or spoke and moved like an automaton. She had found the secret of peace. In the time of her trouble she had sought the Lord, and found in Him not only forgiveness and remission of sin, but strength to resist temptation, to bear suffering with patience and humility. Her service was no longer one of constraint and fear, but of love—no longer the enforced task of a slave, but the free gift of a child.

The twins, on their part, sobered by the trouble they had passed through, and pitying Paulina for the sorrow they only half understood, did their best, both in work and lessons, to please their sister and mother. And the school-room labors went on harmoniously and pleasantly enough for the most part, though now and then was heard a deep sigh or an impatient interjection, always followed by the exclamation: "I do wish Mrs. Winifred would get well, don't you, Pall?" answered by, "Yes, indeed I do, with all my heart!"

And where, all this time, was Mrs. Winifred? In the great chintz bedroom, the very best room in the house, whither she had been carried by Lady Corbet's orders when stricken down with the fever, waited upon and tended by every one, from Sir John himself down to black Jack; nursed with jealous care by Ashwell, end visited by Doctor Mercer every day, and by Paulina every hour. She had passed the crisis of the disease, contrary to everybody's expectation, and Doctor Mercer said there seemed no reason why she should not get well, but day after day passed, and still she lay on her couch or leaned back languidly in the great chair, pale, thin, and weak, unable to eat, to talk, to employ herself in any way more than a few minutes at a time. It seemed as if the excitement and fatigue of nearly three years past had made themselves felt all at once.

For the first time in her life, Winifred lost the control of her own mind and feelings. She could not think clearly of anything for five minutes at a time. She could not fix her mind upon the things she had always loved best, or drive away the sadness, the discontent, the wretched forebodings, the distrust of her heavenly Father's love, the doubts of His truth which assailed her. Good Mr. Gunnison, who was instructing the twins preparatory to their approaching confirmation, talked and prayed with her, and in these visits Winifred found great comfort, but too often "the clouds returned after the rain," the temptations and the grief came back again, and the work was once more all to do.

Meantime, the weak body languished and lost day by day, and it seemed likely enough that Winifred would fade away and drop into the earth with the fading flowers of autumn. But her work was not yet done, and she could not go home till it was finished.

One day she was leaning back listlessly enough in the chair which Ashwell had drawn to the window, that Winifred might look down on the still gay garden and away to the hills beyond the city. She had wearied herself in the attempt to set right the piece of work which the twins in a fit of desperation had brought to show her, and had not half finished, when Ashwell came in, scolded them both well, and sent the girls down, Phyllis crying and Jemima in a fit of sulks, to get out of their difficulty as best they could. Winifred felt tired, disappointed, and utterly discouraged. And as soon as Ashwell had left her, she leaned back in her chair, and gave way to a fit of weeping as childish as that of poor Phyllis.

The tears at least did her some good, for she sobbed herself to sleep, and awaked somewhat refreshed and strengthened, and really feeling a little wonder as to what time it was and whether Ashwell would be coming presently with her dinner. She had been dreaming of old times at the Hall—of walking with my lady and working with Mrs. Alwright. The dream was very clear and distinct; she almost felt as though Lady Peckham's inquiry was still ringing in her ear: "And where is my little Winifred?" There seemed a good deal of bustle in the house which she could not understand—and then, why did not Ashwell come?

The door opened. It was not Ashwell with the tray, however, but Paulina, with a little flush of color in her cheeks, and a certain excitement in her manner. She came to Winifred's chair and kissed her.

"Do you feel better? I peeped in a few moments ago, and you were fast asleep in your chair, with the tears on your cheeks! What had you been crying for, you naughty child? Like Phyllis, because Ashwell scolded you?"

"I hardly know myself," returned Winifred, winking away the tears which would stay very near her eyes. "I felt sorry for the poor girls, and vexed at myself for being so easily tired. But, Paulina, if they will bring up their frames now, I will try to show them."

"You are to do no such thing," said Paulina, positively. "The frames can wait, and I have something else to set you upon just now besides tapestry work."

"Why, Paulina, what has come over you?" said Winifred, rousing herself and looking at the girl with attention. "You look as though you had been hearing some great piece of good news!"

"Suppose I have—do you want to hear it?"

Winifred's heart began to beat fast, and she looked at Paulina without speaking.

"Suppose now I could bring the person in all the world you most wanted to see,—whom should it be?" asked Paulina.

Winifred flushed scarlet all at once, for the name which came to her lips was that of Arthur Carew.

Then, as her dream came across her mind, she exclaimed, "Paulina, tell me! Have you news of my lady?"

Then as Paulina nodded mischievously, with her eyes full of smiles and her mouth demurely pursed up:

"Paulina, tell me! Don't tease me, please!"

"It shall not be teased, then," said Paulina. "It shall be made to look pretty, and neat, and have on its new cap, and then it shall see what it shall see."

"No, no, Paulina!" said a voice at the half-opened door. "You shall not keep us waiting any longer. Winifred, my dear, my darling child!"

It was the voice of her dream. Winifred stretched out her arms with a cry like that of a child which sees its mother. She saw the well-known face, looking more delicate than ever under the close widow's coif and veil, caught a glimpse of Alwright's tall, spare form behind her mistress, heard a little cry of alarm from Paulina, and that was the last she knew, till she found herself lying on the bed, with Mrs. Alwright bathing her face, and Lady Peckham and Paulina watching her.

I shall not attempt to describe the meeting between Winifred and her oldest friend, nor the raptures of Alwright over her former pupil. At last Lady Peckham yielded to her cousin's hospitable entreaties, and descended to partake of the feast Lady Corbet had prepared for her, and Winifred was left in charge of Alwright, who insisted upon cutting her dinner, and would gladly have been allowed to put it into her mouth.

"No, indeed, dear Alwright, I can feed myself very well," said Winifred. "I feel better than for a long time past, though I was so silly as to faint. Sit you there where I can look at you, and tell me all the news. I see my lady is a widow. When did Sir Edward die?"

"At Rome, whither we went in the train of my Lord Castlewaine the ambassador—and pretty company he was!" said Alwright, in disgust. "You know, my dear, between ourselves, Sir Edward was always inclined to side with whichever party was uppermost. So, after we went to London and to court, he began to look the way the king's party did—toward Rome, you know. He did not really go over, and perhaps he never meant to do so, but he read their books, and went to the chapel, and all that. So, when this embassy was sent out, Sir Edward must needs go along. It was a grief to my lady, though he made her health one reason for the journey, but you know she never opposed her husband."

"Perhaps his majesty thought the journey to Rome would finish Sir Edward's conversion," said Winifred.

"And so it did, indeed, my dear, but it was the wrong way. Sir Edward saw and heard so many things that no true English gentleman could swallow, that he became disgusted with the whole concern. Then he took one of the fevers they have there, and died in a few days. The priests came about him, and would have it that he died in the Church of Rome, but it was no such thing. And then, my lady was very ill and feeble for a long time after, so we could not leave when my Lord Castlewaine did—more by token, they say the pope never showed him the least bit of favor, after all. I must say, some of the foreign papists were very good to us—I shall always remember it of them, I am sure—but oh, Winifred, if you could only see the cooking, and the smells, and the old women! Well, my lady got better, at last, and then we came home as quickly as we could."

"I tried every way to hear from you," said Winifred, "but I could not learn where Sir Edward had gone. When I first came here, I heard that Lady Corbet was cousin to my lady, and hoped to get news from her, but she could only tell me that my Lord Carew was dead, and my lady, she thought, was still abroad."

"Yes, the poor gentleman is dead at last, and a good thing, too, for himself and everybody. Master Arthur is Lord Carew now. Much good it does him, since he cannot come home to enjoy it!"

"And where is Master Arthur—I mean, my lord?" asked Winifred, suddenly very busy with her boiled chicken.

"He has been all this time in far-away parts, fighting the Turks that they say the King of France has brought upon Christendom again. But now he hath returned to Holland, and is in the service of the Prince and Princess of Orange, God bless them!"

"But how did you find me out, and why did my lady never answer the letter I sent her by Joseph the groom, after my mother died? Oh, Mrs. Alwright, if you know how I wearied for an answer to that letter!"

"Aye, aye, poor maid!" said Alwright, sympathetically. "I can guess well. 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.' But the letter never reached my lady. Joseph did not get to London till after we had set out for Rome. As soon as we came back to the Hall, my lady's first inquiry was for you, and sadly disappointed we were to learn that the family was broken up, and you were gone no one knew where."

"Your brother knew, and Dame Oldmixon."

"Yes, but neither of them were at Holford. A gentleman my brother knew at college has given him a fine living away off in the North, somewhere about Durham. And Dame Oldmixon has gone to live with some of her kin. So we could find out nothing from them. Then my lady left the Hall for good, and we went to Exeter, where we have—I mean, my lady has a fine old house, as good as this. And the heir has new furnished the Hall, and given my lady a deal of the old furniture, so you will see the place looking very natural, though, to be sure, we have not the Hall garden to walk in."

"But how did you find me out at last?"

"Oh, my lady was wanted at the Hall on some business. I must say the new family are very civil, and treated her as though she were the head of the house still. So we went out to visit all the old places, and among the rest the Stonehill farm. And there we found your uncle and aunt—a stirring, notable dame she seems, but no more like your dear mother than a houseleek is like a bunch of violets. She told us that you had gone to live as governess to my Lady Corbet's daughters, and had staid behind to nurse them in the fever, but she did not know whether you were dead or alive.

"So then my lady said, 'Alwright, I am going to Bristol to seek out my cousin Judith.'

"For you see, there had been no intercourse between them for ever so long, my old lady having been bitterly opposed to Mrs. Judith marrying young Corbet, though he has turned out enough better than that poor silly Mr. Hervey.

"'I am sure she will give us a welcome for the sake of old times,' said my lady; 'and perhaps I may find Winifred still with her.'

"And so she did! She had always a warm heart, had Mrs. Judith, and I for one never blamed her for marrying the man to whom her parents betrothed her. So she welcomed us as if we had been princesses of the blood, and could not say enough in your praise for all you did, which I was not at all surprised at, for you were ever a good girl, my dear, and had the best of teaching, though I say it that should not, perhaps."

"She is an excellent lady," said Winifred, warmly. "An own father and mother could not have been kinder than she and Sir John have been to me since I have been ill."

"And so she ought!" said Alwright, rather indignantly. "I wonder what she would have done without you. But she is a good woman, that I do not deny, and seems to have brought up her daughters well."

"That she has, and they are all sweet girls. I long for the time when I shall be able to teach them again."

"Then you may leave off longing, for you are not going to do any such thing!" answered Alwright, sharply. "You are to go home with us to Exeter, and be brought up as my lady's own daughter henceforth! She told me so herself.

"'If I find Winifred at all what I expect—' those were her very words—'I shall take her home and treat her as my own child.'

"And I am sure she will not be disappointed in you, for seeing that you are so thin and pale, you are prettier than ever, and more like poor Captain Winthrop, your cousin. So don't be thinking or talking of teaching any more, sweetheart, but got well as fast as you can, and be ready to return home with us. And I must learn to call you Mrs. Winifred, now that you are to be a great lady!"

"You shall never call me anything but your own Winnie, dear Alwright! And so my lady does not live at the Hall any more?"

"No; in her house at Exeter, as I told you. And she hath a good jointure and money from her father's estate besides. So we have such an establishment as becomes a lady of her quality, though we see little company, my lady being so lately a widow. But now, my dear, you must not speak a word more, but lie and rest against my lady comes up."

Winifred did not wish to talk. She was quite content to lie still and enjoy the sober certainty of waking bliss. "To live with my lady all the rest of her life—to read to her and wait upon her—was it possible that, after all her past trials, such a future could be in store for her?" How unthankful, how distrustful she had lately been, and all this time God had this blessing in store for her! This very morning she had been feeling as if He had forgotten her! Most earnest was her prayer for forgiveness, her thanksgiving for the unexpected and undeserved blessing. She fell asleep with the words of prayer in her heart and on her lips, and awoke to find the dear face bending over her, the dear hand once more clasped in hers.

From that time Winifred improved rapidly, gaining flesh and strength from day to day, until she was able to go first into the school-room for a change, and then out into the garden. It was quite settled now that Winifred was to return home with Lady Peckham as soon as the doctor should pronounce her strong enough to bear the journey, and was to be considered henceforth as her ladyship's adopted child.

"I am sure I don't know what in the world I shall do without you, dear!" said good Lady Corbet. "You have been everything to us during this disastrous time of sickness and poor Paulina's trouble, and I shall always say that it was a blessed day for us all when I met you at Mrs. Bowler's. At the same time, I don't deny that my kinswoman hath the best right to you, and perhaps needs you more than I, in respect she hath no daughters to keep her company in her widow's household. And though daughters are a care, doubtless, and an anxiety, yet it cannot be denied that they are a great comfort. I am sure Sir John would have always given you a home as long as you needed it, and would have provided a marriage portion for you the same as for his own girls, and no doubt my lady will do the same when you come to leave her, as of course you will do some day, sweetheart, for such maids as you do not go begging."

"I shall never leave my lady," said Winifred, hastily, and vexed to feel her cheeks growing scarlet.

"Aye, aye, that is what they all say," said Lady Corbet, smiling. "'I shall never leave you, mother,' says Pall. Poor Pall, I do not know what she, of all others, will do without you."

Winifred echoed her good friend's sigh. She felt herself drawn two ways, and while she, like the rest, took it for granted that she was to go with Lady Peckham, she could not help feeling many regrets for those she was leaving behind.

The next day Lady Corbet came up again, full of smiles and significant looks.

"Aha, madam, did I not say our Winifred was not one to go begging?" said she, addressing herself to Lady Peckham, who was amusing her young cousins with some stories of her experience abroad, while Mrs. Alwright looked over and rectified the much abused tapestry work. Then recollecting herself, she assumed an air of becoming importance, as she beckoned Lady Peckham into the next room.

"I wonder what my mother means?" said the literal Jemima, as the door closed. "Why should Mrs. Winifred go begging?"

"She does not really mean begging," said Phyllis, laughing. "I know what it is! Somebody has been proposing for Winifred, and I guess who it is, too! It is Mr. Gunnison."

"Mr. Gunnison!" said Jemima, slowly. "Why, he is married. I saw his wife's name in the cathedral. 'Here lies Mary, beloved wife of James Gunnison, aged twenty-six!'"

"But she is dead, you goose! Don't you know that when you read her name on the tomb yourself? How should she be in the cathedral vault, else?"

"Oh, I do hope it is Mr. Gunnison, because then Winifred will live in the Close and we can see her every day."

"Hush, hush!" said Alwright, who had established herself in the school-room, where she reigned supreme over needles and frames, to the great disgust of old Ashwell. "Young ladies should never talk of being married, or guess what their elders mean! Now, take your frames, be good maids, and sit up straight at your work, and I will tell you how my lady and I went to visit the convent at Rome."

Phyllis was right in guessing that her mother's words related to a matrimonial proposition for Winifred, though she was mistaken in the person. Doctor Mercer had admired Winifred from the first of their acquaintance. They were naturally thrown much together during the continuance of the fever, and afterwards, in Winifred's own sick-room. And the more he knew her, the more he saw to admire. Doctor Mercer, blunt and odd as it pleased him at times to appear, was a gentleman, and a man of strong and warm feelings. He had known little of women, having always been devoted to science and to his profession, and had been in the habit of looking upon them with a kind of indulgent contempt, as poor weak creatures, who must be borne with and taken care of because they "were" weak, and because they were necessary to the well-being and continuance of the race.

But in Winifred he had met with a woman who had commanded first his admiration, and then his respect and love, by her quiet courage, her docility and good sense, and her straightforward truthfulness. The end of the matter was that the grave, middle-aged doctor had fallen in love with the girl of eighteen. And this very morning he had, after the fashion considered decorous at the time, made proposals to Lady Corbet as being her present guardian, for the hand of Winifred Evans, and she in her turn had propounded the matter to Lady Peckham.

"You see, cousin, it may be or might have been considered a fine match for our Winifred. Doctor Mercer is no common apothecary but a physician, besides that he is a gentleman of a good old family, and hath a moderate fortune of his own besides his profession. He is a man of high character, and a good Christian. I am sure his prayers and his exhortations, when my poor children were ill, were as good as a clergyman's, and so said Mr. Gunnison himself. To be sure, he is a thought elderly for Winifred, but then she is grave beyond her years."

"And what does Winifred think of the matter?" asked Lady Peckham, as soon as she could get in a word. "Does she like this Doctor Mercer?"

"She always speaks well of him, and talks and laughs with him when he comes to see her, especially since she has been so much better. More than that, I cannot say. But no doubt she will be guided by you in the matter. I told Doctor Mercer, 'My cousin Margaret has taken the gentlewoman under her own charge,' said I; 'and she is the person to be consulted, but doubtless Winifred will be governed by her will, as is becoming.'"

"It all depends upon Winifred's own feelings," said Lady Peckham, smiling and sighing. "I am not one of those who believe in forcing the inclinations of young people, however great may be the worldly advantages promised."

"Nor I," said Lady Corbet. "You know how I stood out against my old lady, your honored mother, who, with all due respect to her and you, did a deal more of that sort of thing than ever came to good. But then Winifred may like him, you know. It is nothing very strange for a girl to fancy a man old enough to be her father."

"True, especially if he is presented to her in the light of a hero," observed Lady Peckham.

"And you know it would be a good match," continued Lady Corbet. "Sir John has put by the money for Winifred's portion the same as for his own girls, and you and I could give her an outfit suitable for any lady in the land," continued the good lady, who was evidently gratified at the prospect of a wedding. "Doctor Mercer has established himself permanently in Bristol, and is coming into good practice. It would be hard for you, that is true," she concluded, struck all at once by the idea that there was another side to the matter, "to lose Winifred, just as you have found her again."

"I should not let that consideration stand in the way, if Winifred were disposed to the match," said Lady Peckham. "Girls always do marry some time or other—at least, such girls as Winifred—and it is of no use to calculate upon anything else. It would be gross selfishness in me to allow myself to be influenced by any such thing as that. I suppose, Cousin Judith, the best way will be for me to sound Winifred upon the matter, and see what her feelings are. Or will you undertake the office yourself?"

"Dear heart, no! I have no sense at all about managing any such matter. I should say and do just exactly the wrong thing. I never knew any other way of going to work than just speaking right out."

"I think that is usually the best way of going to work," said Lady Peckham, smiling. "It was always your way, Judith. I remember my father used to call you 'Down-right Dunstable!' However, I will talk to Winifred about the matter, and put the good doctor out of suspense as quickly as possible."

Winifred received the doctor's proposal at first with simple incredulity, then with some degree of indignation, and at last she burst into tears and sobbed hysterically.

"Why, Winifred, my child, what is all this for?" said Lady Peckham. "I cannot for my life see anything in the matter calling for such floods of tears! Come, come, be a woman, and tell me what to say to the good man!"

The old tone of gentle command had not lost its effect over Winifred. She checked herself by degrees, and presently was calm enough to say:

"I am sure he is very good—and does me great honor—but oh, my lady, I cannot think of it! I cannot, indeed! I wish to do my duty, but—"

There seemed imminent danger of another flood of tears, as Winifred ceased speaking, and busied herself with the fringe of her tippet.

"It is not necessarily your duty to marry a man because he asks you," said Lady Peckham, smiling. "But, Winifred, I would have you consider seriously before you reject this offer. It is a very advantageous one, in every respect."

"I know it, my lady, and far above my deserts, but—"

"You have seen a great deal of Doctor Mercer, and that is a way to become well acquainted with him," pursued her friend. "What is there about him that you do not like?"

"Nothing, my lady! He is one of the best men I ever knew! To be sure, I have not known many."

"He has a good estate besides his practice, and his family is, to say the least, equal to your own."

"Superior, my lady! I have not forgotten that I am but the daughter of a merchant captain, and the granddaughter of a Somersetshire yeoman," said Winifred, not without a touch of pride. "I trust not to forget my station."

"Your mother belonged to one of our oldest Devonshire families," said Lady Peckham. "I do not think there is any disparity upon that score. Sir John Corbet claims the pleasure of paying your marriage portion, and my good cousin Judith and myself will see that you have everything becoming your position. Think of it, Winifred! Such an opportunity of establishing yourself will not come every day. Think well before you decide!"

To judge from her face, Winifred did not seem to be thinking favorably. Her friend watched her with something like a smile lurking in her eyes and the corners of her mouth, as Winifred sat very erect, looking down at the sprigs of rosemary which she was pulling to pieces for Alwright to distil, and upon which she was bestowing a good deal more strength than was necessary.

"Well, my child," said she, at last, "you must not keep the good man in doubt longer than you can help. What shall I say to him?"

"I cannot marry him, my lady!" Winifred's voice was husky, but firm, and her face had regained its calmness. "He is very good—too good for me, but I cannot be his wife. It would not be right! I am sure it would not! Oh, my dear lady, do not be angry with me, but indeed, indeed I cannot marry Doctor Mercer!"

"My dear child, I have no right or cause to be angry, since the doctor's loss is my gain. I have no mind to part with you, Winifred, though I could of course do so, if it seemed best for you. You are still young, and your health is not yet firmly established—though, as my cousin Judith would say, that is the more reason for your marrying a doctor."

"Please, my lady!"

"I suppose I ought to go over with all the stock phrases and questions," continued Lady Peckham, smiling rather sadly. "I ought to preach to you the duty of submission to your elders, to lecture you upon your presumption, and to question you as to whether you have any other attachment which prevents you from accepting so good an offer. Why, my child, if you color so, I shall think there is some occasion for the question!"

Winifred's face was indeed scarlet with the provoking color which "would" rush into her cheeks at the wrong time.

"What dream are you cherishing, little one?" asked her friend, tenderly drawing the blushing face and tearful eyes to hide themselves on her shoulder. "You have, perhaps, seen some one who more nearly approaches your notions of a hero than even your kind and courageous doctor! You have no engagement, have you, Winifred?"

"No, my lady."

"Well, my child, I do not want to pry into your secrets, if you have them."

"Indeed, my lady, I have none," said Winifred, lifting her head, but letting it fall once more as she met Lady Peckham's motherly and penetrating gaze. "Oh, madam, do not be angry with me!"

"Why should I be angry, Winifred?" asked Lady Peckham, gravely. "Do you know of aught that should displease me?"

"No, madam," said Winifred, recovering her calmness, and meeting her friend's gaze. "I have nothing in my mind of which to be ashamed before you or before God. It is true that I have had an attachment to one whom I have not seen for some years, and shall probably never meet again, but that is all. I shall never be married, nor have I any wish to be so. I have no other desire than to live with you and wait upon you, or, if that may not be, to go on earning my bread as I have done. Marry Doctor Mercer, I cannot! I am deeply sorry to seem so ungrateful for all his kindness, but the thing is impossible. I would rather work in Lady Corbet's kitchen, or even scrub my aunt's floors and trenchers all my life-long!"

"Well, sweetheart, that is not the alternative," said Lady Peckham, kissing her. "I shall acquaint my cousin with your decision and leave her to inform the doctor. But, Winifred, my dear child, beware of making an idol, even of your cross! Believe me, it is easy to do so. Do not let your thoughts dwell or your fancies wander in a world of your own making, lest in doing your own works, you cease from God's, and thus lose your portion in the rest which remaineth for His people. Now lie down and repose yourself, and try to gain strength, for I wish to return home as soon as possible. I hope to find letters from my brother awaiting me."

Lady Peckham was helping to loosen Winifred's dress as she spoke, and she felt the start and quiver, at the same time that she caught a glimpse of an enamelled chain and locket which she well knew.

"And is it even so!" she thought, as she descended the stairs. "Has the poor little thing been cherishing the memory and image of my wild Arthur all these weary years? I remember now how shy she has seemed of asking or speaking about him! Well, well! Such constancy deserves its reward, but I fear for her, especially if Arthur should return. However, there is no help for it now. She would make a lovely little baroness, that is certain, and her birth and breeding are better than those of the London heiress my poor mother destined for her elder son. But what an old fool I am! Arthur has doubtless fallen in love with a dozen ladies of quality since he hath seen Winifred!"

Lady Corbet could not help showing her disappointment at the rejection of Doctor Mercer, and would have plied Winifred with various arguments in his favor, had not her cousin persuaded her that to agitate Winifred in her present weak state would be to endanger a relapse which would infallibly kill the patient.

"Well, I dare say you are right, Cousin Margaret! You always are, and if Winifred cannot like him, she cannot; and that is all about it. But to see the luck some girls have! I could almost have wished the offer had fallen to my Pall, who, poor child, can hardly hope for any great match after all that has happened. Not that I should care so much for that, if I could only see her hold up her head once more."

"I have observed that my young cousin seemed to have a cloud hanging over her," said Lady Peckham, not unwilling to divert Lady Corbet's attention from Winifred. "She appears like one who has some heavy trouble upon her mind."

The good mother was easily won to tell the story, and her cousin listened with real sympathy and kindness.

"And, now you see all this puts my poor girl in a sad position!" concluded Lady Corbet. "Her father is displeased, and with good reason, and people about town make the tale a deal worse than it really is. It is bad enough, no doubt, and would have been worse, but for Winifred and the good doctor, but yet it seems hard that the poor maid's life should be thus overclouded. My old Lady Germaine, who has always been my great friend and adviser, cannot help me here, in respect she is herself a papist—more's the pity! And what to do I cannot tell."

"You do not think Paulina has any present inclination to the Church of Rome?" asked her cousin.

"Bless your heart, no! I am rather afraid of her going to the other extreme. I found her only yesterday reading the strangest book! It is called the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and Mr. Gunnison says it was written by a Baptist tinker. I must say it reads like a fairy tale, and though I am no great reader, I could hardly lay it down. But surely such a book cannot be fit for a young lady!"

"I believe there is no harm in the book, cousin," said Lady Peckham. "Winifred read it aloud to me some three years ago. It appeared to me to be a remarkable book to come from such a source, and to contain a great deal of truth."

"Well, I dare say you are right! I would as soon have your notion of a book as the bishop's. But I wish you would give me your best advice, for I am at my wits' end and that is the truth!"

"Suppose you let my young cousin go home with me for a while," said Lady Peckham, after a little consideration. "My household will be but a dull one for a young lady, but Paulina will have Winifred for a companion, and as you say she has not yet finished her studies, she can perfect herself in work and housewifery under my good Alwright, and I will myself instruct both her and Winifred in what accomplishments I possess."

Lady Corbet joyfully accepted the offer, and proceeded to acquaint her daughter with it. Paulina was equally pleased. She liked the prospect of having a change and seeing something new, and she was overjoyed at leaving Bristol, where, she fancied, every one stared and pointed at her. Winifred was delighted not to be separated from Paulina, to whom she was greatly attached, and, in fine, every one was pleased except poor Doctor Mercer and the twins. The latter were indeed inconsolable at the thought of losing Winifred and Paulina both at once, and were hardly to be comforted by the promise that they should also go to visit Cousin Margaret in her new home.