ASHCLIFFE HALL (continued 2)

"You forget one thing, Gilbert," said Stevens, gravely. "Think how many Catholic emissaries we have in Ireland and Scotland, and how Catholic the Gaelic heart once was, and the Erse heart has ever been."

"Father Cuthbert, how many members of the Society of Jesus were in Oliver Cromwell's army?"

"A good many," admitted Stevens.

"Hundreds," resumed Gilbert.[5] "And do you think they did the cause any good?"

"Well, it scarce looked so at the time," said Stephens. "But in the end it seemed more like it."

"'Liberty' is our watchword now," said Gilbert. "Liberty to do anything and everything: which, of course, in six cases out of every ten, means to do wrong. So long as the Church is uppermost—despotism: she can allow no liberty. But let the Church be undermost, and she must set herself to obtain it by all means. Liberty for the sects, we ought never to forget, means liberty for the Church. And to the Church it is not of much consequence whether she herself, or her friend Liberty, devour the dying monster, Protestantism. When the Church sits once again on the throne of Great Britain, the first dish served up to her at her coronation banquet will be the dead body of her jackal, Liberty."

"Gilbert!" said Stevens, rising from his grassy seat, "you are not so stupid as I thought you. Unfortunately, your talents do not lie in the particular path which circumstances have marked out for you. But you have parts, Gilbert. Let us return to Ashcliffe."

"And go back to that dog-hole?" inquired Gilbert, suddenly subsiding into his former discontented self.

"I fear, my son Gilbert," said Stevens, placidly, "that the dog-hole will have to be your habitation for a few days longer. But be comforted, Gilbert. As soon as I can, I will take your place there."

"Hope you may enjoy it!" muttered Gilbert, as they emerged on the Exeter road.

III. ALONE IN THE WORLD.

"Speechless Sorrow sat with me; I was sighing wearily: Lamp and fire were out; the rain Wildly beat the window-pane. In the dark we heard a knock, And a hand was on the lock; One in waiting spake to me, Saying sweetly, 'I am come to sup with thee.'

"All my room was dark and damp,— 'Sorrow,' said I, 'trim the lamp; Light the fire and cheer thy face; Set the guest-chair in its place.' And again I heard the knock; In the dark I found the lock,— 'Enter, I have turned the key— Enter, stranger, Who art come to sup with me.'

"Opening wide the door, He came,— But I could not speak His name; In the guest-chair took His place,— Though I could not see His face: When my cheerful fire was beaming, When my little lamp was gleaming, And the feast was spread for three,— Lo! my Master Was the Guest that supped with me. HARRIET M'EWEN KIMBALL.

Grand beyond expression was Madam Passmore that Monday afternoon whereon her party was held. Her hair stood at the very least six inches above her head. Her petticoat was of crimson quilted satin, and she wore a yellow satin gown, edged with rich old point-lace. Large silver buckles decorated her shoes, and a lace cornette was perched upon the summit of her hair. A splendid fan, and a handkerchief nearly all lace, shared her left hand; and in her pocket, alas! dwelt a silver snuff-box. Her four daughters were dressed alike, in their blue satin petticoats and brocaded trains, with coral necklaces, and cherry-colored top-knots of ribbon instead of cornettes stood on the summit of their hair. They also displayed fans, Isabella making all manner of use of hers, and held handkerchiefs not quite so elaborate as their mother's. Their trains were not gathered up this evening, so that when they walked a grand display of brocade was made on the floor. About four o'clock, Dr. Braithwaite and his wife made their appearance. Mrs. Braithwaite was a modest, retiring little woman, holding in high reverence her big learned husband, but the fact of being constantly kept under the sound of quotations which she did not understand, gave her a scared, bewildered look which did not improve her countenance. She was quietly dressed in black, with lace tucker and ruffles, and a white top-knot on her hair, which, in comparison with that of Madam Passmore, was dressed quite low.

"Good-even, Madam, and the young ladies!" said Mrs. Braithwaite, courtesying nervously. "I hope I see you well in health?"

"Madam," said the Doctor, bowing low over the hand which Madam Passmore extended to him, "that most marvellous and mellifluent writer of poesy, of whom among the Grecian dramatists the fame hath transcended"—

"Squire and Madam Harvey!" said Robert, in a tone which drowned the Doctor's elaborate Greek compliment.

This lady and gentleman lived in the "great house" of the next parish. They were quiet people, who, having no children, had grown somewhat prim and precise; but they had honest and kindly hearts, and greeted their old friends, if somewhat stiffly, yet cordially. Squire and Madam Rowe, Mr. John Rowe, and Mrs. Anne Rowe, were next announced; and after a general salutation, the party sat round the fire in high-backed chairs, very stiff and uncomfortable. The table in the window held the tea-tray, and Cicely, who entered with the tea-pot, was welcomed by all parties, to whom she courtesied with "Hope I see you all well, Sirs and Madams!" Isabella, her train trailing after her, now approached the little table and poured out the tea. Cicely stood holding a waiter, on which, as each cup was filled, she carried it in turn to the person for whom it was intended. Nothing was eaten with the tea. Tea was tea in 1710, and nothing else.

Mr. John Rowe, alias Johnny, was a slim youth of eighteen, who had come to the party with the view of making himself agreeable to Isabella. He would scarcely have felt flattered if he had known how she regarded him. She despised him supremely, both on account of his slight juniority, and of his taste in dress. At this moment he wore yellow silk stockings, green breeches, a white waistcoat embroidered in blue, a gray silk coat heavily laced with silver, and a very large full-bottomed wig, of flaxen color, though his natural hair was almost black. As he had also dark eyes and black eyebrows, his wig certainly was not in the best taste. Isabella all but shuddered at his combination of colors as he advanced to salute her, and did not receive him by any means warmly—a calamity which he, poor innocent fellow, humbly set down to his want of personal merit, not knowing that it was caused by the deficiencies of his costume. Squire Passmore was nearly as smart as his young guest, but he was dressed with much better taste, in a dark green coat and breeches with silver lace, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings. The party sat still and sedately on their row of chairs round the fire—Mrs. Braithwaite eclipsed and silent, for Madam Passmore was on one side of her, in the yellow satin, and Madam Rowe on the other, attired in emerald green: these two ladies were talking across her. Further on was Madam Harvey in dark crimson, conversing with Mrs. Anne Rowe, who was dressed in simple white, and Henrietta, next to Squire Rowe. The younger daughters of Squire Passmore were out of the group, and so were John Rowe and Charley. As Celia crossed the room just behind the assembled elders, Madam Rowe's hand detained her.

"Come and talk with me, my dear. 'Tis an age since I saw you. You don't grow any taller, child!"

"I have done growing," said Celia, with a smile.

"Well, so I suppose. How different you are from all your sisters, to be sure! I am sure Mrs. Bell must be a head taller than you are."

"Not quite so much as that," said Celia, still smiling.

"Short and sweet, Madam Rowe!" observed Squire Harvey, who overheard her.

"Ay, I won't contradict you there," she said. "And how old are you now, my dear? Seventeen?"

"Nineteen, Madam."

"Dear me! well, how time does go! To be sure, you and your sister are just a year older than Johnny, I remember. You should hold yourself up more, my dear: always make the best of yourself. You don't bridle so well as you might, either.[1] Really, you use not all your advantages."

"Madam Rowe, that is what I am always telling her," said Isabella, with a faint assumption of energy, "and she takes no more notice"—

"Well, my dear," answered Madam Rowe, administering a dose of flattery, "you know we cannot all be as handsome as you."

Isabella bridled, colored, and remained, though silent, evidently not displeased.

Supper followed about six o'clock, and afterwards the basset-table was wheeled out by Harry, and the three Squires sat down with Dr. Braithwaite to enjoy their favorite game. After basset came prayers. As Dr. Braithwaite was present, of course he officiated; and, casting aside his cards, gravely took the Bible in his hand instead of them. A prayer followed—long, prolix, involved, and stony: more like a sermon than a prayer, nor a very simple sermon neither. The party now took their leave. Dr. and Mrs. Braithwaite walked to the vicarage, which was very near. As it was only a short distance from Ellersley to Ashcliffe, Squire Harvey and his wife came and returned in their coach; the distance to Marcombe was longer, and the Rowes were on horseback. Harry went out and assisted the ladies to mount, Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son, and Anne behind her father.

"Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come you away to bed," said Cicely, taking sudden possession of that personage. "What could I have been thinking of not to come for you before, I should like to know? To think of you being up at this time! A quarter to nine, I do declare!"

"I don't know what you were thinking of, but I wish you would think about it every night!" answered Lucy, resigning herself to fate in the person of Cicely.

"Well, I shall go to bed also," said Isabella, yawning, and rising from the embroidery-frame. "I protest I am as tired as if it were Sunday evening! That John Rowe is the most tedious young man."

"You had better all go, my dears," responded Madam Passmore. "Good-night to you all. Good-night, Celia."

Celia fancied that her mother repeated the greeting to her with a tenderness in her voice which was scarcely usual with her. Was she thinking of the coming revelation?

She found Cicely helping Lucy to undress.

"Cicely," she asked, sitting down, "how do you pray?"

"Oh, that horrid Dr. Braithwaite!" cried Lucy. "I nearly fell asleep before he had half done."

"Make haste, Miss Lucy, my dear. You'd ought to have been a-bed long ago. How I pray, Mrs. Celia? Why, just like anybody else."

"Like Dr. Braithwaite? Oh, me!" said Lucy, parenthetically.

"No; not like Parson Braithwaite, my dear. Why, I couldn't even follow Parson, he said such hard words."

"I never tried," said Lucy, calmly. "I'm too sleepy to talk any more. Good-night." And she composed herself on the pillow and closed her eyes.

"You don't pray like Dr. Braithwaite, I am sure, Cicely," said Celia. "But how do you pray?"

"Well, my dear, the prayers my mother taught me, there was three on 'em—the 'Our Father,' and the 'I Believe,' and 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.' I says the 'Our Father' yet, and 'I Believe' now and then; but I've left off to say Matthew and them, for when I comes to think, it sounds like the Papishes; and I don't see no prayers like it in the Book neither. I mostly prays out of the Book now, just the words that David did, and Moses, and the like of they; unless I wants somewhat very particular, and then I asks for it quite simple like, just as I'd ask you for a drink of water if I couldn't get it for myself."

Celia lay silent and thoughtful, but "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," roused Lucy in a minute.

"What's that about Matthew, Cicely?"

"Well, my dear, I'm not sure that 'tis more than foolishness. But my mother taught it me, and I used to say it a many years:

"O Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing.

"It does sound rather like praying to the apostles, Cicely," suggested Celia; "but the end of it is better."

"That's where it is, Mrs. Celia; and that's why I dropped it. Now don't you begin talking to-night—go to sleep, there's dears. There'll be as many hours in to-morrow as to-day. Eh! but, my dear, did you ask Madam, as I said?"

"Yes, Cicely," said Celia, half-rising. "She will tell me to-morrow."

The troubled look in old Cicely's face deepened. But she only said, as she took up the light, "Go to sleep, dear hearts!"

"I ask your pardon, Madam!" said Cicely, courtesying low, as Madam Passmore opened her bedroom-door in answer to her tap. "But could I have a minute's speech with you, if you please?"

"Come in, Cicely, and sit down. Is anything the matter?"

"Well, Madam," said Cicely, glancing round the room, as if to make quite sure there were no listeners, "I'm afeared there's somewhat up about Mrs. Celia. This afternoon, as I was a-going down the lane to Mally Rihll's, with the cordial water and jelly you was pleased to send for sick Robin, there was a fellow met me, that I didn't half like the looks of. I should know him again, for he stopped me, and began to talk;—asked the way to Moreton (and I doubt if he really wanted to go, for he took the t'other turning when he come to it), and asked whose the Park was, and if Master was at home; and was going on to what family he had, and such like impudent questions. 'If you want to know all that,' says I, 'you'd better go up and ring the bell, and ask Squire his own self,' I says. Well, he didn't ask me no more questions after that, but went shuffling on his way, and took the wrong turning. But when I got to Mally's, and while we sat a bit, she tells me that my gentleman had been there asking for a drink of water, and a lot more impertinence. And asked her right out if there warn't a young lady at the Park of the name of Celia, and how old she were, and when her birthday were, and all on like that. And Mally—(you know, Madam, she's but a simple soul)—I could hear from her story, she up and told him everything he asked, and maybe more than he asked, for aught I know. And what does he do but (seeing, no doubt, what a simple soul she was) outs with a table-book, and actually sets down in black and white what she was a-telling of him. 'The impudent rascal!' say I to Mally, when I hears that: 'and why couldn't you have given it him hot and strong, as I did?' I says. And she says he looked so like a gentleman, for all his shabby coat, with nigh a quarter of a yard of lace pulled off the bottom, and all a-flapping about in the wind, as is both full and cold to-day, as she hadn't the heart to say nothing impertinent, says she. But 'Impertinent!' says I; 'I think, after all the impertinence he'd given you, you might have give him a dose without hurting of him much,' says I. So I thought I'd come and tell you, Madam, at once."

"You have done right to tell me, Cicely," said her mistress. "I think—I am afraid—there will be some inquiry for the dear child, before long."

"Well, Madam, and that's what I'm afeared on, too," said Cicely. "And to see Mrs. Celia sitting there so innocent like!"

"She must know, Cicely—she must know soon."

"If I was you, Madam, I'd tell her now," said Cicely,—"asking your pardon for being so bold as to say it to you."

"Yes, Cicely, so I shall," replied Madam Passmore, in a very despondent tone.

"Madam," said Cicely, suddenly, "would you be offended with me if I said a word to you?"

"My good Cicely, why should I? Speak your mind."

"Seems to me, Madam," said Cicely, confidentially, "as you haven't asked the Lord about this trouble. And though He knows all things, yet He likes to be asked and told about 'em: He says so somewheres. Now, if I was you (asking your pardon, Madam), and didn't like for to tell Mrs. Celia (and I'm sure I shouldn't), I'd just go and tell Him. It'd come a sight easier, would telling her, after that. You see, Madam, the Lord don't put troubles on us that He don't know nothing about. He's tried 'em all Himself, and He knows just where they pinches. And when He must needs be bring one on us, or we shall be running off down the wrong road like so many chickens, He whispers like with it, 'Don't be down-hearted, child; I've tried it, and I know.'"

"Cicely, how did you come to know all this?" inquired her mistress in astonishment.

"Bless your heart, Madam, I don't know nothing!" humbly disclaimed Cicely,—"never did, nor never shall. 'Tis with the Lord's lessons like as with other lessons;—takes the like of me a month or more to spell out a word, where there be folks'd read it off plain. I knows nothing, only I knows the Lord."

Madam Passmore made no answer, but in her secret heart she wondered, for the first time, whether the one thing which Cicely owned to knowing were not worth a hundredfold all the things which she knew.

"Sit down, Celia, my dear. I will now tell you all I know."

Madam Passmore spoke rather sadly, and Celia sat down with a beating heart.

"Celia," said her mother again, "would you like me to tell you right at once, or by degrees?"

"At once, if you please, Mother. Let me know the worst."

"I am not sure that I know that, my dear," sighed the lady. "However, I will say the worst I know. Celia! you are not my daughter."

"Mother!" was Celia's inconsistent but very natural exclamation.

"I have told the truth," said Madam Passmore, gently.

"But who—who are my father and mother?" asked Celia, in a bewildered tone.

"I know not, my dear Celia. Only you are not our child, nor akin to us. I will tell thee all about it. It was on the 10th of June, my dear, when Bell was seven days old, nineteen years ago"—

"Is Bell not my sister, then?"

"No. I know nought of any of thy kindred. But hark!"

"I beg your pardon, Mother. Please go on."

"My husband came up into my chamber, where was only Cicely beside with the babe on her lap; and he said, 'Lucy, my dear, there is a strange thing happened at the Park gates. A little babe lies there all alone,—it would move thy motherly heart to see it. Shall we send and take the poor little soul in?' I said, 'Send Cicely to see and fetch it.' So Cicely brought it in—a poor, weak babe that had scarce strength to breathe. It was lapped in fine white linen, laced with real point, and there was a gold pin fastening a paper on its little coat, with but one word—'Celia.' Well, to be sure, Cicely had some work to bring it round! For hours we feared it would die. But at last it seemed a little easier, and we thought it breathed stronger. And when my husband next came up he said, 'Well, Lucy, shall we send the babe away?' But I said, 'Nay, John, it seems fairly to ask pity from us: let us keep it, and bring it up as our own, and call it Bell's twin-sister. It will never harm us—perchance bring a blessing with it, for truly it looks as if God Almighty had sent it to us.' So we did that. I do not know, my dear, whether it was quite right of us to call you Bell's twin-sister: I am afraid not, for certainly it is not true. But as to your having brought a blessing with you, that's true enough. But that is how it was."

Celia sat still and silent, feeling crushed and cut off from all she loved by this disclosure.

"You have no thought," she said slowly, at last, "who I was, nor whence I came?"

"Well, my dear, my husband thought you might be the child of some Jacobite forced to fly, who must needs leave you behind. 'Twas plain you were not forsaken because your father was too poor to keep you, for he must have been well to do, to judge from the lace on your clothes and the gold pin. Mayhap some nobleman, for aught I know."

"Mother," said Celia, with a great effort, "think you that my parents, whosoever they were, could be—Papists?" The last word was scarcely more than whispered. It conveyed to the Passmore mind the essence of all that was wrong, cruel, and fearful.

"I trust not, indeed, my dear," replied Madam Passmore, kindly, but evidently struck and distressed by Celia's question, "for I know nought. Now, Celia, child, don't take this to heart. Remember thou art as much our daughter, bound to us by every bond of love and custom, as before I spoke a word regarding this. There is ever a home for thee at Ashcliffe, child; and truly I scarce love my own better than I do thee. Let it not trouble thy mind. Go and chat with Harriet and Bell, to keep off the vapors.[3] Farewell, my dear!"

Madam Passmore kissed Celia, and let her go. She did not follow her advice to go and chat with her sisters, but walked very slowly along the passage which led to her own room. She felt as if all around her were changed, and she herself were isolated and lost. Heretofore the old house and its furniture had seemed a part of herself: now they felt as if suddenly placed at an immense distance from her. Even the portrait in the passage of the Squire Passmore who had fought at Edgehill, brandishing his sword fiercely—even the china dragons which faced the hall-window—old familiar objects, seemed to scowl at her as she went by them. She would be Celia Passmore no longer. At another time she would have smiled at the superstitious fancy—only natural now—that these disowned her as a daughter of the house. She turned aside sadly, mechanically, into the little room where old Cicely sat sewing and singing. Her joint occupations ceased when she saw Celia's face.

"Eh, my dear! I see Madam's told you. Come hither and sit down a bit. Is it very sore, dear heart?"

"Cicely, do you know any more?" Celia asked, without answering her question.

"I know nought more than Madam," said Cicely. "I went and fetched you, sweet heart, and a nice little babe you was, though you did keep crying, crying on for everlasting. Such beauties of clothes as they'd wrapped you in! I never see a bit of finer lace than was on them, nor never want; and the cambric was just beautiful! I have them laid by, if you'd like to see."

"Oh! let me see them, Cicely! I meant to have asked Mother."

What a mockery the last word seemed now!

Cicely unlocked one of her cupboards, and produced the clothes, very handsome ones, as she had said, yellow with time, and edged with rich point. The gold pin was still there, with the paper, on which a manly, yet delicate, Italian hand had written the one word which alone remained to Celia of her unknown origin. She wondered whether it were her father's writing.

"Cicely," she said, suddenly, "was I ever baptized?"

"Whether afore we had you or not, Mrs. Celia, I can't say," replied old Cicely, quietly. "Madam thought this here"—pointing to the paper—"meant as you wasn't, and they'd like you to be christened 'Celia;' and Master thought it meant as you was christened already. So old Parson Herring—him as was here afore Parson Braithwaite—he christened you in church, as it stands in the prayer-book, 'if thou hast not been baptized,' or what it is. Squire thought that'd do either way."

"And you saw nothing when you went to fetch me, Cicely?"

"Nothing at all, my dear. There might have been somebody a-watching, you know—the place is so thick with trees—but I see nought of any sort."

The long pause which followed was broken by Cicely, who perceived that Celia's handkerchief was coming surreptitiously into requisition.

"If I was you, Mrs. Celia, I wouldn't trouble, my dear. Very like nobody'll ever come after you; and if they did, why, a grown lady like you might sure say where you'd be—without your own father and mother asked you; I'd never counsel you to go again them; though it would be a sore job parting from you, to be sure. You see, my dear, you've lived here nineteen years, and never a word said."

"But that man, Cicely!" said Celia, under her breath.

"Well, that man, my dear," repeated Cicely doubtfully, "he's very like of no kin to you, only somebody as knowed who you be."

"He was a Papist," said Celia, in the same tone. "But even so, Cicely, should I make no search for my father and mother? I am theirs, whoever they were; even if they were Papists." And the handkerchief came out openly.

"Cry it out, my dear; you'll be all the better for it after. And if you'll list me, Mrs. Celia, you'll never trouble no more about this by yourself, but just go and tell the Lord all about it. He knows who they be, child, and He made you their child, knowing it. And, my dear, I do find 'tis no good to carry a burden to the Lord, so long as I just get up and lift it on again. I'm very much given to lifting on again, Mrs. Celia, and perchance you be. But when I find that, why, I just go and go again, till I can lay it down and come away without it. Takes a deal of going sometimes, that do! But what would you think of me, if I says, 'Mrs. Celia, you carry this linen up-stairs, if you please;' and then goes and walks off with it myself?"

Old Cicely's homely illustration was just what Celia wanted.

"Thank you, Cicely," she said; "I will try to leave the burden behind."

Father Cuthbert Stevens sat in his lodging at Moreton, complacently turning over the contents of his portfolio. To his landlady he had told the same tale as to Squire Passmore, representing himself as an artist in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller; and had, to her thinking, verified his story beyond all doubt, by producing in part-payment of his debt a new shop-sign, representing a very fat and amiable-looking lion, standing on one leg, the other three paws flourishing in the air, while the eyes of the quadruped were fixed on the spectator. Mrs. Smith considered it a marvellous work of art, and cut off a large slice of Mr. Stevens' bill accordingly. Mr. Stevens passed his sketches slowly in review, tearing up the greater part, and committing them to the safe custody of the fire. But when he came to the staircase at Ashcliffe, he quietly placed that in security in a special pocket of the portfolio. He was too wise to speak his thoughts aloud; but had he done so he would have said:

"I have not done with this yet. To-morrow I propose to pay a visit to Marcombe, and this will secure me an unsuspected entrance into Mr. Rowe's family, where I may obtain some further information, on which a little paper and lead will be well spent."

Gilbert Irvine had rather remonstrated on Stevens' telling the same tale to Mrs. Smith as to the Squire at Ashcliffe, reminding him that it was well to have two strings to one's bow. Stevens answered, with that calm confidence in his own wisdom which never forsook him, "It is sometimes desirable, my good Gilbert, not to have too many strings to one's bow. This is my official residence. Mr. Passmore, or some other country gentleman, may find that I am lodging here. What do I gain, in that case, by representing myself to this excellent woman as a retired sea-captain or an officer on leave of absence? No; I am an artist at Ashcliffe, and I am an artist at Moreton. My private residence is——elsewhere. I am a citizen of the world. I am not troubled by any inconvenient attachment to country or home. I can sleep on a feather-bed, a green bank, or a deal board; I can eat black bread as well as pâté aux truffes."

"Ah! but can you do without either?" growled Gilbert, in reply.

To return from this episode. Mr. Stevens was now alone, having, as we saw, parted with Gilbert that afternoon, the latter returning to the hiding-place at Ashcliffe, very much against his inclination. The former worthy gentleman had supped on a hashed partridge, obtained in an unsportsmanlike manner which would have disgusted Squire Passmore; for while Stevens could talk glibly against poaching or anything else, when he required a savory dish, he was not above setting a snare on his own account. He had just placed safely in the pocket of the portfolio such sketches as he deemed it politic to retain, when a slight noise at the door attracted his attention, and looking up, he saw Gilbert Irvine, with white face and dilated eyes, standing in the doorway.

"We are betrayed!" hissed the latter.

Mr. Stevens, rising, quietly closed the door behind Gilbert, and set a chair for his excited visitor.

"Don't be rash, Gilbert," observed he, calmly tying the strings of the portfolio.

"Bash!" muttered Gilbert, between his closed teeth. "I tell you, they have discovered the hiding-place!"

"Have they? Then it was fortunate that I thought of dining to-day with Mr. Passmore."

"Father Cuthbert, do you care for nothing on earth?" said Gilbert, raising his voice.

"Gilbert," remarked Mr. Stevens, in his most placid manner, "I have already desired you not to be too rash. Allow me to remind you, that calling me 'Father Cuthbert' in a Protestant house, and especially in that tone of voice, is scarce likely to advance our interests. As to my caring for nothing on earth, I shall care to hear your information, when you can deliver yourself of it in a reasonable manner."

Gilbert, with some difficulty repressing his indignation, came to the conclusion that the being before him was inaccessible to feeling.

"When I arrived at the well," said he, "I was very near falling into it. I"—

"Ah! rash, as usual," commented Stevens, affectionately patting the portfolio.

"I lighted safely on the ledge of the door," pursued Gilbert, "but when I gave the necessary push, I found that it refused to stir. It had been made up from the inside."

"Something underneath the door, which stuck, of course," said Stevens.

"I took out my knife," replied Gilbert, "and with great difficulty steadied myself so that I could pass the blade under the door. There was nothing underneath, but the door refused to stir."

"What did you do then?"

"Came back to you directly, to ask you whether we ought to leave the country."

"You did not try at the other end?"

"In broad daylight? Mr. Stevens, what can you be thinking of?"

"The interests of the cause, my friend."

"Ah, well! I have the greatest respect for the interests of the cause, but I have also a slight disposition to attend to the interests of Gilbert Irvine."

"That is precisely your bane, my excellent Gilbert. And there are other defects in you beside."

"And pray, what excuse could you have devised to gain entrance?"

"Gilbert, I wonder at your marvellous incapacity for lying. Now it comes quite natural to me."

"Seems so," said Gilbert, grimly.

"Well, as your disposition to attend to the interests of Gilbert Irvine is so strong, I will not require more of you than to attempt the entrance by night. I noticed when I left the house that one of the drawing-room windows was unfastened. You can get in that way, and pass through Mrs. Celia's chamber."

"I'm blessed if I'll try that style of putting my neck in a noose for you more than this once!" Gilbert burst forth.

"I don't ask it of you more than this once," replied Stevens.

"And suppose they have fastened the window since you were there, as is probably the case?"

"If you cannot get in, come back to me. We must find out whether they have discovered the hiding-place. But I will take the next chance myself; and, Gilbert, it shall be in broad daylight."

Gilbert stared at him, and shook his head with an incredulous laugh.

"You are a poor conspirator, Gilbert," lamented Stevens. "Can you plaster a wall?"

"No," said Gilbert.

"I can. Can you mend a harpsichord?"

"Not I, indeed."

"I can. And can you make a tansy pudding?"

"Holy Mary! such women's work!"

"Women are useful, my friend, in their way—occasionally. And it is desirable, now and then, even for the nobler sex, to know how to do women's work. Now I dare say you have not the least notion how a shirt is made? I can sew beautifully."

"By the head of St. Barbara!"—Gilbert began.

"Avoid Catholic oaths, Gilbert, if you please. And never be above learning. Pick up all you can—no matter what. It may come in use some time."

"I wish you would tell me how you mean to get in?"

"Mr. Passmore was observing at dinner that he wanted a new under-footman. I shall offer myself for the place."

Gilbert's eyes and mouth opened rather wide.

"I can carry coal-scuttles, my friend," said Mr. Cuthbert Stevens, insinuatingly. "And I could black a boot. In a week (or as soon as my purpose was served) I should have a bad cough, find that the work was too hard for me, and leave."

"Father Cuthbert, you are a clever fellow!" said Gilbert, slowly.

Father Cuthbert made no attempt to deny the impeachment.

"And where am I to be, while you are blacking your boots and carrying your coal-scuttles?"

"Quietly pursuing your inquiries between here and Exeter, and keeping out of scrapes—if you can. You will find me here again this day month."

On the evening of the next day, Squire Passmore saw and engaged a new under-footman.

"A tall, personable fellow," said he to his family; "very well-spoken, and capable, he seems. He comes from Exeter, and his name is George Shepherd."

And much vexed was he, for he had taken a fancy to his new servant, when, four days later, Robert announced to him that George had such a bad cough, and found the work so hard for his weak chest, that he wished to leave at the end of the month.

"It ben't always the strongest-looking as is the strongest," observed Cicely on the subject; "and I'm a-feared, Madam, that George is but weakly, for all he looks so capable."

Madam Passmore, who felt very sorry for poor George, tried diet-drinks, linseed tea, and lozenges, but all were to no purpose; and at the end of the month the new footman left.

"What are you doing, Mr. Stevens?" demanded Gilbert Irvine, as he entered the lodger's room at Moreton on the same evening that the under-footman's place at Ashcliffe Hull was again left vacant.

"Good-evening, Gilbert," responded Mr. Stevens, without looking up. "Only making my official shirts into a rather smaller and neater bundle. They may serve again, you know."

"And what news?" asked Gilbert.

"You were right," said Mr. Stevens. "They have found it out, and have made up the well-door. But Mrs. Celia knows nothing about the hiding-place, though she sleeps in the chamber."

"Well, and why couldn't you believe me at first? What have you gained by all your trouble?"

"Why could I not believe you?" repeated Stevens. "Because you are rash, as I always tell you. And what have I gained? A month's board and lodging, and thirteen and fourpence. Look at it."

"Ugh!" said Gilbert to the shillings. "Well, I would not have blacked a lot of dirty boots for you, if you'd been twice as many!"

"A mistake, Gilbert! a sad mistake!" said Stevens, tying up his bundle. "Never be above doing anything for the good of the Church."

"Nor telling any number of lies," responded Gilbert. "Well, and where are we to go now?"

"Back to France, and report to my Lady Ingram as quickly as possible."

"And what then?"

"That is for her to say. I should think she will come and fetch the girl."

"And how are we to live meanwhile?"

"You, as you please. For me, being now so well equipped and in good practice," answered Mr. Cuthbert Stevens, with an insinuating smile, "if I found it impossible to get any other sort of work, I could take another place as footman!"

Time passed calmly on for some months after Madam Passmore's disclosure to Celia. The latter gradually lost the fear of being claimed by strangers, and devoted herself to the very diligent study of the Scriptures. The Squire and Madam Passmore became slowly grayer, and Cicely Aggett a little whiter than before. But nothing occurred to break the quiet tenor of events, until Henrietta's marriage took place in the summer of 1711. The bridegroom was the heir of a family living in the adjoining division of the county, and the day was marked at Ashcliffe by much splendor and festivity. The bride showed herself quiet and practical on this occasion, as on all others; and as she had made her mark but little, she was comparatively little missed. Cicely cried because she thought it was the first break in the family, and Dolly because she fancied it was the proper thing to do; but Henrietta herself would have scorned to run the risk of spoiling her primrose silk by tears. Everything was done en règle—wedding and breakfast, throwing the slipper, dancing, and a number of other small observances which have since been counted tedious or unseemly. And when the day was over, and Henrietta Carey had departed to her new home, things sank down into their old groove at Ashcliffe Hall.

When the year 1712 dawned, only the three younger sisters of the family were at home. Harry had rejoined his regiment, and Charley was away on a visit to his eldest sister and her husband.

So matters stood at Ashcliffe Hall on that New Year's Day when what Celia dreaded came upon her.

IV. MY LADY INGRAM.

"She had the low voice of your English dames, Unused, it seems, to need rise half a note To catch attention,—and their quiet mood, As if they lived too high above the earth For that to put them out in anything: So gentle, because verily so proud; So wary and afraid of hurting you, By no means that you are not really vile, But that they would not touch you with their foot To push you to your place; so self-possessed, Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes An effort in their presence to speak truth: You know the sort of woman,—brilliant stuff, And out of nature." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

The Tories were in power in the winter of 1711-12. The Duke of Marlborough's credit at home had long been sinking, and he was now almost at the lowest point in the Queen's favor. On that very New Year's Day of which I have spoken, for the first time in the annals of England, a Ministry had endeavored to swamp the House of Lords by a wholesale creation of Peers. Politically speaking, Squire Passmore was anything but happy, for he was a fervent Whig. He sat in the parlor that morning, inveighing angrily against the Earl of Oxford and all who followed or agreed with him—the Queen herself of course excepted—for the edification of Madam Passmore—who was calmly knotting—Isabella, and Celia.

"'Tis pity, John," said Madam Passmore, quietly, "that you have no Tories to list you."

"I wish I had—the scoundrels!" exclaimed the Squire.

"O Mother!" cried Isabella, rising hurriedly from her seat in the window, "sure here is some visitor of quality. There is a carriage at the front door with arms on the panels."

"What arms?" asked her father.

"I don't understand anything about arms," said Isabella, "and one of the coats I cannot see rightly. The one nearer here is all cut up into little squares, and in one part there is a dog on his hind legs, and in another a pair of yellow balls."

The Squire came to the window to see for himself. "Dog! balls!" cried he. "A lion rampant and bezants—the goose!"

"Well, Father, I told you I did not understand it!" remonstrated Isabella, in an injured tone.

"Madam, my Lady Ingram!" announced Robert, in a voice of great importance.

The Squire turned round directly, and offered his hand to conduct the visitor to a seat, like a well-bred gentleman of his day,—Madam Passmore rising to receive her, and her daughters of course following her example.

The stranger was a tall, commanding woman, with great stateliness of carriage, and much languor of manner. She had evidently been very handsome, but was now just past her prime. Her eyes and hair were dark, her voice low and languishing. Altogether it struck Celia that she was very like what Isabella would be in a few years, allowing for the differences in color. She took the chair to which the Squire led her, and addressed herself to Madam Passmore. There was a little peculiarity of distinctness in her pronunciation.

"You wonder to see me, Madam," she began.

"Madam, I am honored by your Ladyship's visit."

"I am the widow of Sir Edward Ingram, who held a commission under His Majesty King James. I come to speak with you on business."

"With me?" asked Madam Passmore, a little surprised.

"You are Madam Passmore, of Ashcliffe Hall?—Yes."

"Pray continue, Madam."

"Your daughters, Madam?" inquired the visitor, with a languid wave of her hand towards the young ladies.

"Yes; does your Ladyship wish to see me without them?"

"Not at all—oh! not at all. Which is Mademoiselle Celia?"

"The woman's French!" exclaimed the Squire, under his breath.

Celia's blood rushed to her face and neck, and then ebbed, leaving her white and faint, as she rose and came slowly forward. "Is this my mother?" she was asking herself, in a mental tumult.

"Ah! that is you? Stand a little farther, if you please. I wish to look at you."

"No; this is not my mother!" said Celia, to her own heart.

"Not by the half so tall as I should like—quite petite!" said Lady Ingram, scanning Celia with a depreciatory air. "And so brown! You cannot bridle—you have no complexion. Eh! ma foi! what an English-looking girl!"

The Squire had almost arrived at the end of his patience. Madam Passmore said quietly, "I ask your Ladyship's pardon, but perhaps you will tell me why you make these remarks on my daughter?"

"I beg yours," said Lady Ingram, languidly. "I thought I had told you. She is a foundling?—Exactly. Et bien, she is my daughter—that is, my husband's daughter."

"Thank Heaven, not yours!" growled the Squire, heard only by Isabella.

"My husband was married twice," pursued the visitor, unconscious of his rising anger. "His first wife was an Englishwoman—short, I suppose, and brown, like this girl. I am the second wife, née Mademoiselle de La Croix, daughter of Monsieur the Marquis de La Croix. Tu peux m'embrasser ma fille."

Celia would have obeyed somewhat reluctantly, had she understood her step-mother. She stood still, unaware that she had been addressed at all, since she had never learned the language in which Lady Ingram had spoken to her.

"Well, you will not?"

"I beg your pardon, Madam," answered Celia, speaking for the first time, and in a very tremulous voice. "I did not understand what you said."

"You speak French?"

"No, Madam."

"Possible!" exclaimed Lady Ingram. "You have never taught her to speak French? She speaks only English? Ma foi, quelle famille!"

"I could scarce teach her what I knew not," replied Madam Passmore, with quiet dignity.

"C'est incroyable!" drawled Lady Ingram, "Well, child, come here and kiss me. How awkwardly you stoop! Your carriage is bad—very bad. Ah, well! I shall see to all that. You will be ready to return with me on Thursday?"

This was only Tuesday. Celia heard the question put with a sinking of dismay. How should she go? yet how should she refuse?

"My Lady Ingram," said Squire Passmore, coming forward at last, "if you were this child's own mother, or if her father were yet alive, I could not of course set myself against your taking her away. But you tell us that you are only her step-mother, and that her father is dead. It seems to me, therefore, that she is at least as much our child as yours—rather more, indeed, seeing that we have brought her up from her cradle, and you have never cared to see her until this day. Moreover, I hope your Ladyship will not take it ill of me, if I ask you for some proof that you really are the child's step-mother."

"What proof shall I give you, Mr. Passmore?" asked Lady Ingram, quietly. "I have every wish to satisfy you. If you desire to see proofs that I am really Lady Ingram, ask the servants my name, or look here"—

She drew a letter from her pocket, and held it out to the Squire. The direction was—"To my Lady Ingram."

"Madam," said the Squire, returning the letter with a bow, "I do not in the least doubt that I have the honor of addressing my Lady Ingram. But can you satisfy me that you are Celia's step-mother?"

"If my word is not enough to satisfy you, Mr. Passmore," answered Lady Ingram, not at all annoyed, "I know of nothing that will do it. The marriage-registers of Celia's parents, or my own, would give you no information concerning her: and she has no register of baptism. I believe, however, that her name was written on a paper left with her, in Sir Edward's hand. If you will produce that paper, I will show you more of his writing, which you can compare with it. I think the fact of my knowledge on the subject ought to prove to you that I am the person whom I represent myself to be."

The writing on the two papers, when compared, tallied; and Squire Passmore felt that Lady Ingram was right, and that she could not produce any proof of her relationship so strong as the mere fact of her knowledge of Celia's name and origin. If she really were Celia's step-mother, he had no wish to prevent his adopted daughter from making acquaintance with her own family: and he saw nothing for it but to take Lady Ingram at her word.

"I am satisfied, Madam, that you have some relation to Celia," said he. "And as to her visiting you—for I cannot consent to her being taken entirely away—let the child choose for herself. Sure she is old enough."

"Ah!" said Lady Ingram, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "Very well. You shall decide, chère Celia. At the least you will visit me?"

"I will visit you, Madam, with pleasure," answered Celia, a little to the damage of truth; "but these dear friends, who have had a care of me from my childhood, I could not leave them entirely, Madam." The sentence ended in tears.

"I am not an officer of justice, ma belle!" said Lady Ingram, laughing faintly. "Ah, well! a visit let it be. You will come with me—for a visit—on Thursday?"

"I will attend your Ladyship."

"You live near, Madam?" asked Madam Passmore, wondering whether she could live so far away as the next county.

"I live in France," was the unconcerned answer,—"in Paris in the winter, and not far thence in the summer."

The Squire almost gasped for breath. "And where is your summer dwelling, Madam? I think, if you please, that I have a right to ask."

"Oh! certainly. At St. Germain-en-Laye."

"St. fiddlesticks-and-fiddlestrings!" roared the Squire.

"Sir!" observed Lady Ingram, apparently a little startled at last.

"Pope, Pretender, and Devil!" thundered the exasperated Whig.

"Ah! I only know one of the three," said Lady Ingram, subsiding.

"And pray which is that, Madam?" grimly inquired he.

"Le Roi Jacques—you call the Pretender," said she calmly, drawing on her glove.

"If you please, Madam," asked Celia, with an effort, "do you know what was my mother's name?"

"White, Black—some color—I know not whether Red, Green, or Blue. She was a nobody—a mere nobody," replied her successor, dismissing Celia's insignificant mother with a graceful wave of her hands.

"Have I any brothers or sisters, Madam?"

"Sisters! no. Two brothers—one son of your mother, and one of mine."

"They live with you, Madam?"

"My son Philip does," said the Baronet's widow. "Your brother—Sir Edward now—is away on his travels, the saints know where. But he talked to me much about you before he went, and Philip teased me about you—so I came."

"Celia!" said the Squire, sternly, "this woman is an alien, a Tory, and a Papist. Will you still go?"

"Ought I not, Father?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Judge for yourself, child," he answered, kindly.

"I think I ought to go," said Celia, faintly.

"I am a Catholic, Mr. Passmore, it is true," remarked Lady Ingram, quietly; "yet you need not fear me. Sir Edward, my husband, was Protestant, and so is his son Edward: and I do not interfere. We are all surely going to heaven, and what matter for the different roads?"

"I think I ought to go," repeated Celia, but Madam Passmore thought, still more faintly than before.

"On Thursday, then," answered Lady Ingram, touching Celia's cheek with her lips. "Ah! ma chère, how I will improve you when I have you to myself!—how I will form you! That bon ton, that aisance, that maintien!—you have them not. You shall soon! Adieu!"

"Well, sure, 'tis sore to lose you, Mrs. Celia, my dear!" observed Cicely Aggett, as she sat sewing; "but more particular to a stranger—among them dreadful Papists—and such a way off, too! Why, 'tis nigh a hundred mile from here to Paris, ben't it?"

"I don't know how far it is," said Celia, honestly; "but I am sure 'tis a very long way."

"Well, anyhow, you'll not forget us, dear heart?"

"I shall never do that, Cicely. But don't talk as if I were going away altogether. 'Tis only a visit. I shall soon come back—in a year, at the longest."

"Maybe, my dear," answered Cicely, quietly; "and maybe not, Mrs. Celia. A year is a long time, and we none of us know what the Lord may have for us afore then. Not one of us a-going along with you! Well, you'll have Him with you, and He'll see to you a deal better than we could. But to think of you going among them wicked, cruel Papists! Don't have no more to do with none of them than you can help—don't, my dear! Depend upon it, Mrs. Celia, they ben't a bit better now than they was a hundred and fifty years ago, when they burned and tormented poor folks all over the country, as my grandmother used to tell me."

"What did she tell you about it, Cicely?"

"She were to Exeter,[1a] Mrs. Celia, and she lived till I was a matter of fifteen; and many a tale she's told me of their doings in them old times. But the one I always liked best was one her mother had told her. Her mother had been a young maid when the burnings was a-going on; she were to London,[1b] and was woman to a lady, one of them as was burnt."

"Tell me about it, Cicely," requested Celia, with feelings of curiosity and horror struggling for precedence.

"I'll tell you all I know about it, my dear. There! your ruffles is done. I'll take Mrs. Bell's next. Well, Mrs. Celia, her name, my great-grandmother's mistress, was Kyme; she was to Lincolnshire, leastwise her husband, for she was a London lady herself. An old family them Kymes be; they've dwelt in Lincolnshire ever since Moses, for aught I know. Mrs. Anne—that was her name—was a sweet, gentle lady; but her husband, Mr. Kyme, wasn't so likely: he'd a cruel rare temper, I've heard my grandmother say. Well, and after a while Mr. Kyme he came to use Mrs. Anne so hard, she couldn't live with him no longer, and she came back to her father and mother. She never went back to Lincolnshire; she took back her own name, and everybody called her Mrs. Anne Askew, instead of Madam Kyme. I never understood quite the rights of it, and I'm not sure my grandmother did herself; but however, some way Mrs. Anne she got hold of a Bible, and she fell a-reading it. And of course she couldn't but see with half an eye, when she come to read, that all them Papishes had taught her was all wrong, when she didn't find not one of their foolishnesses set down in the book. And by and by the priests came to hear of it. I don't just know how that were; I think somebody betrayed her, but I can't tell who: not my great-grandmother, I'm sure, for she held her lady dear. Ay, but there was a scrimmage when they knowed! Poor young lady! all turned against her, her own father and mother and all and the priests had their wicked will. They took her to Newgate, and tried first to talk her over; but when they found their talk was no good, but Mrs. Anne she held fast by what God had taught her, they had her into the torture-chamber."

Celia drew a long breath.

"Ah!" said old Cicely, slowly shaking her white head, "'tis easy to say 'God forgive them!' but truly I misdoubt whether God can forgive them that tear the flesh and rent the hearts of His saints! What they did to that poor young thing in that torture-chamber, God knoweth. I make no doubt 'tis all writ down in His book. But Mrs. Anne she stood firm, and not one word could they get out of her; and my Lord Chancellor, who was there, he was so mad angry with her, that he throwed off his gown and pulled the rack with his own hands. At last the doctors said—for they had doctors there, the devils! to tell them how much the poor wretches could bear—the doctors said that if Mrs. Anne had any more, she would be like to die under it. So then they took her down; but afore they let her be, they kept her two hours longer a-sitting on the bare floor, and my Lord Chancellor a-talking at her all that ever he could. Then at last, when they found her too much for them, they took her away and laid her to bed. 'As weary and painful bones,' quoth she to my great-grandmother, 'had I as ever had patient Job. I thank my Lord God therefor!'[2] And if that warn't a good Christian saying, my dear, I'd like to hear one. Well, for some months after that she laid in prison; the wicked priests for ever at her, wearying her life out with talk and such. So at the end of all, when they saw it was no good, they carried her out to Smithfield, there to die.

"They carried her out, really; for every bone in her was broken, and if she had lived fifty years after, she could never have set her foot to the ground again. But Mrs. Anne she went smiling, and they said which saw her, as joyful as if she were going to her bridal. There, at the stake, with the faggots round, they offered her, last thing, a pardon if she would come round to their evil ways. Ah! they knew not the strength within her! they saw not the angels waiting round, when that poor broken body should be ashes, to take up the glad soul to the Lord's rest. What was pardon to her, poor crushed thing? She had seen too much of the glory of the Lord to set any price on their pardons. So when they could do nought more with her, they burned her to ashes at the stake."

Old Cicely added no comment. Was any needed? But if she had known the words spoken at one such holocaust by the mother of the martyr, she might fitly have ended her tale with them:

"BLESSED BE JESUS CHRIST, AND HIS WITNESSES!"

"Bon jour, ma chère. You look a little better this morning—not quite so English. Et bien! you are ready to come?"

Celia had never felt so English as at that moment. She forced back the tears, which felt as if they would work their way out in spite of her, and said, in a very low voice, "I am ready, Madam."

"Let us lose no time, then," said Lady Ingram, rising, and allowing her hoop to spread itself out to its full width. "I wish you a very good morning, Madam."

She swept slowly and statelily across the room, leaving Celia to exchange passionate kisses with all the members of the family, and then, almost blinded by the tears which would come at last, to make her way to the coach which was standing at the door.

"There, there, my dear!" said Lady Ingram, a little querulously, when the coach had been travelling about five minutes; "that is quite enough. You will make your eyes red. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, so unbecoming as the red eyes. These people are not your family—not at all so good. I do not see anything to cry about."

"She does not mean to be unkind," thought Celia to herself. "She is only heartless."

True—but what an only!

Lady Ingram, having done her duty to her step-daughter, leaned back in the coach and closed her eyes. She opened them again for a moment, and said, "We arrive on Tuesday in London, I start for Paris not until the next Tuesday." Then the dark languishing eyes shut again, rather to Celia's relief. The ponderous vehicle worked its way slowly along the muddy roads. Celia sat by her step-mother, and opposite was Lady Ingram's maid, a dark-browed Frenchwoman; both were remarkably silent. Lady Ingram went to sleep, and the maid sat upright, stony, and passive, frequently scanning the young stranger with her black eyes, but never uttering a word. That evening the coach clattered into Chard, where they slept. The Friday saw them at Shaftesbury, the Saturday night at Andover, where they put up for the Sunday. On the Monday evening they reached Bagshot, Lady Ingram declaring that she must have the morning to pass Bagshot Heath, and adding a few anecdotes of her past troubles with highwaymen which terrified Celia. Two men travelling on horseback, who were staying at the inn, joined their forces to the carriage, and the heath was passed without any attack from the highwaymen. About ten o'clock, when they were a little past the heath, Lady Ingram desired Celia to keep her eyes open. "We are just entering Windsor," she said; "and though I have not time to stop and let you see the Castle, yet you may perhaps get a glimpse of it as we pass." They passed the Castle, and drove down the park. Suddenly the coach came to a full stop.

"The stupid man!" exclaimed Lady Ingram. "What does he?"

The question was very soon answered, for William, the footman, sprang from his perch, and presented himself at the carriage-window. Lady Ingram let down the glass.

"What is the matter?" she asked, testily.

"If you please, Madam," was the answer, "there is a coach coming with gentlemen on horseback, and two running footmen in attendance; and Shale thinks it must be the Queen's."

"Draw to one side immediately," commanded Lady Ingram, "and then open the door and we will alight."

All alighted except the coachman, and Lady Ingram took Celia's hand, and stood with her just in front of her carriage. The running footmen passed them first, carrying long wands, and dressed in scarlet and gold livery. Lady Ingram's practised eye detected at once that the liveries were royal. Then came three gentlemen, two riding in front, the third behind. The coach, a large, handsome, but very unwieldly vehicle, lumbered slowly after them. In it were seated three ladies—one alone facing the horses, the others on the opposite seat.

"Which is the Queen, Madam?" asked Celia, excitedly.

"The Princess Anne will sit alone, facing the horses," replied her step-mother.

The lady who occupied the seat of honor, and whom alone Celia noticed, was the fattest woman she had ever seen. She had a fat, round face, and ruddy complexion, dark chestnut hair, and regular features. Her eyes were gray, and the expression of her face, though kindly, was not indicative of either liveliness or intellect. She wore a black dress trimmed with ermine, and a long black hood lined with the same fur. Not until the Queen had become invisible to her did Celia notice her ladies on the opposite seat. One of them was remarkable for a nose not extremely beautiful, and abundance of curls of a dusky red streamed over her shoulders. Celia glanced at the other, and came to the conclusion that there was nothing particular about her.

"So that is Abigail Hill!"[3] said Lady Ingram, in a peculiar tone, when the coach had driven past. "I thought she had had more in her—at least to look at."

"Is that the lady with the red hair, Madam?"

"No, my dear—the other. The red-haired one is the Duchess of Somerset."[4]

Lady Ingram still stood looking after the royal carriage with a meditative air.

"I should like to see Abigail Hill," she said, as if to herself. "I cannot tell how to do it. But we must not delay, even for that. Get in, my dear."

Celia got into the coach, wondering what reason her step-mother could have for wishing to see Lady Masham, and also why she did not give her the benefit of her title. Lady Ingram resumed her own seat in silence, and leaned back in the carriage, apparently cogitating deeply. Mile after mile the travellers journeyed on, until the dusk fell, and at the little inn at Bedfont the coach pulled up. William appeared at the window.

"Please your Ladyship, we can cross the heath to-night," he said. "There's a regiment of Colonel Churchill's just before: the host says they haven't been gone five minutes."

"Then bid Shale hasten on, without stopping to bait," answered his mistress. "We must overtake them, for I do not mean to stop on the road another night, unless it cannot be helped."

The horses were urged on as fast as they could go, and in about a quarter of an hour they came up with the regiment, under whose guardianship they crossed the dreaded Hounslow Heath without fear of molestation. At Hammersmith the coach stopped again. After a little parley between William and the innkeeper, four men came out of the inn with torches in their hands. Two of them placed themselves on each side of the coach, and they slowly journeyed on again. It was quite dark now. Gradually the road became busier and more noisy, and houses appeared lining it at intervals. At length they had fairly entered the metropolis. The coach worked its way slowly along the muddy streets, for it had been raining since they left Staines, and the shouts of the linkmen were almost deafening. As they proceeded, another coach suddenly appeared and attempted to pass them. This could not be permitted. The coachman whipped his horses, the linkmen screamed, the great coach swayed to and fro with the unusual pace. Lady Ingram opened the window and looked out, while the maid clasped her hands and shrieked in her own tongue that she was killed.

"Not at all, ma bonne," was the calm response of the mistress. Then turning to Celia, she asked, "You are not afraid?"

"Not unless you tell me there is something to fear, Madam," answered Celia, in the quiescence rather of ignorance than of courage.

"Ah! I like that answer," replied Lady Ingram, smiling her approval, and patting Celia's cheek. "There is good metal in you, ma chére; it is only the work that asks the polishing."

Celia wondered what the process of polishing would be, and into what kind of creature she would find herself transmuted when it was finished.

"William," said Lady Ingram, putting her head out of the window, "whose coach is that other?"

"Sir John Scoresby's, Madam."

"A baronet of three years later," observed Lady Ingram, quietly sinking back into her seat; "it is impossible to give way."

"Ah, Madame!" faltered the bonne, in a shrill key. "Madame will renounce her right? We shall be over! We shall be dead!"

"Impossible, my good Thérèse," was the placid answer. "I know what is due to myself and to others. To a baronet of one day earlier I should of course give place without a word; but to one of a day later—impossible!" replied Lady Ingram, waving her hands with an air of utter finality.

"But if we are all killed?" faintly shrieked Thérèse.

"Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "But if I were, Thérèse, know that I should have the consolation of dying in the discharge of my duty. No soldier can do more."

"Ah! Madame is so high and philosophical!" lamented Thérèse. "Madame has the grand thoughts! C'est magnifique! But we others, who are but little people, and cannot console ourselves—hélas!"

Meanwhile the battle was raging outside the coach. Shouts of "Scoresby!" and "Ingram!" violent lashings of the struggling horses, oaths and execrations, at last the flashing of daggers. When things arrived at this point, Lady Ingram again let down the glass, which she had drawn up, and Celia, like a coward, shut her eyes and put her hands over her ears. Thérèse was screaming hysterically.

"Ah!" remarked the Baronet's widow, in a tone of satisfaction, replacing the window, "we shall get on now—William has stabbed the other coachman. Thérèse, give over screaming in that way—so very unnecessary! and Celia, my dear, do not put yourself in that absurd position—it is like a coward!"

"But the man, Madam!—the poor coachman!—is he killed?" questioned Celia, in a tone of horror.

"My dear, what does that signify?" said Lady Ingram. "A mere coachman—what can it matter?"

"But will you not ask, Madam?" pursued Celia, in a very pained voice.

"Impossible, my dear!" replied Lady Ingram. "I could not demean myself by such a question, nor must you. Really, Celia, your manners are so wanting in repose! You must learn not to put yourself into a fever in this way for every little thing that happens. Imagine! I, Lady Ingram, stopping my coach, and yielding precedence to this upstart Scoresby, to inquire whether this person—a man of no family whatever—has had a little more or less blood let out by my footman's thrust! Ridiculous!" And Lady Ingram spread out her dress.

Celia shrank back as far as she could into the corner of the coach, and spoke, not in words, to the only Friend she had present with her. "Oh! send me back to Ashcliffe!" was the strong cry of her heart. "This woman has no feelings whatever. Unless there be some very necessary work for me to do in Paris, send me back home!"

But there was very necessary work to be done before she could go home.

After another quarter of a mile spent in struggling through the mud, the coach drew up at the door of a large house. William, who seemed none the worse for his battle, opened the door, and held out his arm to assist his ladies in alighting. Lady Ingram motioned to Thérèse to go first, and the maid laid her hand on the arm of her fellow-servant.

"Ah, bah!" exclaimed she, as she reached the ground. "Why you not wipe de blood from de sleeve? You spoil my cloak—faugh!"

"You had better not use your dagger, William," observed Lady Ingram, as she stepped out, "unless it be necessary. It frightens Madam Celia." And with a peculiar smile she looked back at her step-daughter.

Celia followed Lady Ingram into a lighted hall, where servants in blue and gold liveries stood round, holding tapers in silver candlesticks. They seemed to recognize Lady Ingram, though Celia noticed that William's livery was different from theirs, and therefore imagined that the house she was entering must be that of a stranger. Lady Ingram walked forward in her usual stately manner until she reached the head of the staircase, closely followed by Celia and Thérèse. On the second step from the top stood a gentleman in full dress, blue and gold. A conversation ensued between him and Lady Ingram, accompanied by a great deal of bowing and courtesying, flourishing of hands and shaking of heads, which, being in French, was of course lost upon Celia; but could she have understood it, this was what she would have heard.

"You do me such honor, Monsieur?"

"It is due to you, Madame."

"The second stair, Monsieur! I am entitled only to the head of the staircase."

"Madame will permit me to express my sense of her distinction."

"You overwhelm me, Monsieur!"

"Pray let Madame proceed."

"Not until Monsieur has done so."

"Precedence to the ladies!"

"By no means before His Majesty's Consul!"

Here, then, appeared likely to be an obstacle to farther progress: but after a good deal more palaver, the grave point of precedence, which each was courteously striving to yield to the other, was settled by Lady Ingram and the Consul each setting a foot upon the top stair at the same moment. They then passed forward, hand in hand, Celia as before following her step-mother. The three entered a large, handsome drawing-room, where a further series of bowing and courtesying ensued before Lady Ingram would sit down. Celia supposed that she might follow her example, and being very tired, she seated herself at the same time as her step-mother; for which act she was rewarded with a glance of disapprobation from Lady Ingram's dark eyes. She sprang up again, feeling puzzled and fluttered, whereupon the Consul advanced to her, and addressed her in French with a series of low bows. Celia could only courtesy to him, and look helplessly at her step-mother. Lady Ingram uttered a few languid words in French, and then said in English to Celia, "Pray sit down. You have to be told everything."

So she sat, silent and wearied, until after a time the door flew open, and half a dozen servants entered bearing trays, which they presented first to Lady Ingram and then to Celia. The first tray contained cups of coffee, the second preserved fruits, the third custards, the fourth various kinds of sweetmeats. Celia mentally wondered whether the French supped on sugar-plums; but the fifth tray containing cakes, she succeeded in finding something edible. Lady Ingram, she noticed, after a cup of coffee and one or two cakes, devoted her attention to the sugar-plums.

"You are tired?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to Celia. "Very well, you shall go to bed. I will leave the forming of your manners at present; by and by I shall have something to say to you. Thérèse will dress your hair in the morning. Adieu! come and embrace me."

Thérèse appeared at the door, and after giving her some directions in French, her mistress desired Celia to courtesy to the Consul and follow Thérèse. The maid led Celia into a tolerably large room, with a French bed, which Thérèse informed her that she would have to herself.

"Ah! dat you have de hair beautifuls!" said Thérèse, as she combed it out. "I arrange it to-morrow. Mademoiselle like Madame?"

Celia liked no part of this speech. She knew that her hair was not beautiful, and felt that Thérèse was flattering her; while whatever might be her feelings on the subject of Lady Ingram, she had no intention of communicating them to her Ladyship's maid. Her answer was distant and evasive.

"Aha!" said Thérèse, with a soft laugh to herself. "Perhaps Mademoiselle shall like Monsieur Philippe. Monsieur Philippe love to hear of Mademoiselle."

Celia's heart warmed in a moment to her unknown brother. "How old is he?" she asked.

"Nineteen," said Thérèse.

"And my eldest brother, how old is he?"

"Sir Edward?" asked the French maid. "Ah! I see him very little. He is two, tree, five year older as Monsieur Philippe. He come never."

Celia resolved to question Thérèse no further, and the latter continued brushing her hair in silence.

"That will do, Thérèse," she said, when this process was completed. "I will not keep you any longer," she explained, seeing that the French girl looked puzzled.

"Mademoiselle undress herself?" asked Thérèse, with open eyes.

"Yes, thank you—I like it better. I wish to read a little first."

"De great ladies read never," laughed Thérèse. "Mademoiselle leave de book in Englands. Madame not like de read."

"I will never leave you in England," whispered Celia to her little Bible, resting her cheek upon it, when Thérèse was gone. "But oh! how shall I follow your teaching here? I know so little, and have so little strength!"

And a low soft whisper came into her heart,—"Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world."[5]

"When Mademoiselle is ready, Madame wish speak with her at her dressing-chamber."

This message was brought to Celia by Thérèse the next morning. She was already dressed and reading.

"Ah! dat Mademoiselle is early!" exclaimed Thérèse, lifting her eyebrows. "Mademoiselle read always."

There was a concealed sarcasm about everything this woman said to her, which was particularly distasteful to Celia. She rose and closed her book, only replying, "I will come to my Lady now."

Thérèse led her along the passage into a handsomely-furnished room, where, robed in a blue cashmere dressing-gown, Lady Ingram sat, with her long dark hair down upon her shoulders.

"Ah! good morning. Early!" was her short greeting to Celia, who bent down and kissed her.

"Now, my dear," pursued Lady Ingram, "please to sit down on that chair facing me. I have two or three remarks to make. You shall have your first lesson in the polishing you need so much."

Celia took the seat indicated with some trepidation, but more curiosity.

"Very well," said her step-mother. "Now, first, about blushing. You must get rid of that habit of blushing. There—you are at it now. Look in the mirror, and see if it does not spoil your complexion. A woman of the world, Celia, never blushes. It is quite old-fashioned and obsolete. So much for that."

"But, Madam,"—Celia began, and hesitated.

"Go on, my dear," said Lady Ingram. "You are not putting enough powder on the left side, Thérèse."

"If you please, Madam, I cannot stop blushing," pleaded Celia, doing it very much. "It depends upon my feelings."

"Well, it looks as if you could not," answered Lady Ingram, with a short, hard laugh. "But, my dear, you must. And as to feelings, Celia, a modish woman never has any feelings. Feeling is the one thing absolutely forbidden by the mode. Laugh as much as you please, but mind how you feel merry; and as to crying, that is not allowable except in particular circumstances. It looks well to see a girl weep for the death of her father or mother, and, within reasonable limits, for a brother or sister. But if you are ever left a widow, you must be very careful not to weep for the loss of your husband: that would stamp you instantly. And it is not bien séant for a mother to cry much over her children—certainly not unless they are quite babies. A few tears—just a few—may be very well in that case, if you have a laced handkerchief at hand. But you must never look astonished, no matter what happens to you. And, Celia, last night, when the Consul spoke to you, you absolutely looked perplexed."

"I felt so, Madam," said Celia.

"Is not that just what I am telling you?" replied Lady Ingram, with that graceful wave of her hands which Celia had seen before. "My dear, you must not feel. Feeling is the one thing which the mode cannot permit."

"Pardon me, Madam," answered Celia, looking perplexed now; "but it seems to me that you are trying to make me into a statue."

"Exactly so, my dear Celia—that is just it. A modish woman is a piece of live marble: she eats, she drinks, elegantly and in small quantities—she sleeps, taking care not to lie ungracefully—she walks, glidingly and smoothly—she converses, but must be careful not to mean too much—she distributes her smiles at pleasure, but never shows real interest in any person. My dear, a heart is absolute ruin to a modish woman! She may do anything she likes but feel. Now look at me. Have you seen any exhibition of feeling in me since you have known me?"

Celia felt herself quite safe in acquitting Lady Ingram on that count.

"No, of course not," continued her step-mother; "I hope I know myself and the mode too well. Now, as to walking, what do you think the Consul said to me last night when you left the room?"

Celia confessed her inability to guess it.

"He said, 'What a pity that young lady cannot walk!'"

Celia's eyes opened rather widely.

"It is quite true, you absolutely cannot walk. You have no idea of walking but to go backwards or forwards. A walk should be a graceful, gliding motion, only just not dancing. There—that will do for this morning. As to walking, you shall have dancing lessons; but remember the other things I tell you. You must not blush, nor weep, nor eat more than you can help—in public, of course, I mean; you can eat an ox in your own chamber, if you please—and above everything else, you must give over feeling. You can go now if you wish it."

"Madam, you order impossibilities!" said Celia, with tears in her eyes. "I will eat as little as you please, if it keep me alive; and I will do my best to walk in any manner you wish me. I will try to give over blushing, if I can, though really I do not know how to set about it; but to give over feeling—Madam, I cannot do it. I do not think I ought to do it, even at your command. I must weep when I am sorrowful—I must laugh when I am diverted. I will not do it more than I can help, but I cannot make any promise beyond that."

"Ah! there you are!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "You island English, with your hearts and your consciences, every man of you a Pope to himself! Well, I will not be too hard upon you at first, ma belle. That will do for the present. By and by I shall exact more."

Celia had a request to prefer before she went.

"Madam," she asked, trembling very much, "if it pleased you, and you had no desire that I should do otherwise, would you give me leave to hear Dr. Sacheverell preach on Sunday?"

"Ma chère!" said Lady Ingram, "how can I, a Catholic, choose between your Protestant teachers? You shall go where you like. The Consul has been so good as to place one of his carriages at my disposal, and as I shall remain here all the day, I place it at yours. I will bid William ask where your great Doctor preaches."

Celia went slowly back to her own room, feeling very strange, very lonely, and very miserable, though she hardly knew why. As soon as she reached it, she proceeded to contravene all Lady Ingram's orders by a good cry. She felt all the better for it; and having bathed her eyes, and comforted herself with a few words out of her Book, she was ready when Thérèse came to summon her to go down to breakfast with her step-mother. They breakfasted in a room down-stairs, the Consul and his wife being present; the latter a voluble French woman, who talked very fast to Lady Ingram. The days passed drearily to Celia; but she kept looking forward to the Sunday, on which she hoped to hear a sermon different from Dr. Braithwaite's. When the Sunday arrived, the carriage came round after breakfast to take Celia to hear Dr. Sacheverell, who, William had learned, was to preach at St. Andrew's that morning. To Holborn, therefore, the coach drove; and Celia entered St. Andrew's Church alone. She was put into a great pew, presently filled with other ladies; and the service was conducted by a young clergyman in a fair wig, who seemed more desirous to impress his hearers with himself than with his subject. Then the pulpit was mounted by a stout man in a dark wig, who preached very fluently, very energetically, and very dogmatically, a discourse in which there were more politics than religion, and very much more of Henry Sacheverell than of Jesus Christ.

All the attention which Celia could spare from the service and the preacher was concentrated in amazement on her fellow-worshippers. They were tolerably attentive to the sermon, but on the prayers they bestowed no notice whatever. All were dressed in the height of the fashion, and all carried fans and snuff-boxes. The former they flourished, handled, unfurled, discharged, grounded, recovered, and fluttered all through the service.[6] Whenever the fans were still for a moment, the snuff-boxes came into requisition, and the amount of snuff consumed by these fashionable ladies astonished Celia. They talked in loud whispers, with utter disregard to the sanctity of place and circumstances; and the tone of their conversation was another source of surprise to their hearer.

"Do you see Sir Thomas?"

"I am sure he is looking this way."

"There is Lady Betty—no, on your left."

"Lady Diana has not come this morning."

"How modishly she dresses!"

"Look at the Duchess—what a handsome brocade!"

"That lace cost five guineas the yard, I am certain."

Then came a fresh flourishing of fans, varied by the occasional rising and courtesying of one of the ladies, as she recognized an acquaintance in the fashionable crowd. Did these women really believe themselves in the special presence of God? thought Celia. Surely they never could! There was one point of the service at which all their remarks were hushed, their fans still, and their attention concentrated. This was during the singing. Celia found that no member of the congregation thought of joining the psalmody, which was left to a choir located in the gallery. At the close of each chant, audible comments were whispered round.

"How exceeding sweet!"

"What a divine voice she hath!"

"Beautiful, that E-la!"

And when the prayers followed, the snuff-boxes and fans began figuring again.

On the whole, Celia was glad when this service was over. Even Dr. Braithwaite was better than this. And then she thought of her friends at Ashcliffe, and how they would be rumbling home in the old family-coach, as she stepped in her loneliness into the Consul's splendid carriage. Did they miss her, she wondered, and were they thinking of her then, while her heart was dwelling sadly and longingly upon them? She doubted not that they did both.

"Et bien?" said Lady Ingram, interrogatively, when she met Celia after dinner. "Did you like your great preacher?"

"Not at all, Madam."

"Not at all? Then I wonder why you went. You look disappointed, ma belle. You must not look disappointed—It gives awkward lines to the face. Here—take some of this cake to console you; it is particularly good."

Celia took the cake, but not the consolation.

"At eleven o'clock on Tuesday, my child, we depart for Paris. Do not give yourself any trouble. Thérèse will do all your packing. Only you must not walk in Paris, until you have some clothes fit to be seen. I will order stuffs sent in at once when we arrive, and set the women to work for you."

"Do you know, Madam, if you please"—Celia hesitated, and seemed a little uncomfortable.

"Go on, child," said Lady Ingram. "Never stop in the middle of a sentence, unless you choose to affect the pretty-innocence style. Well?"

"Do you know, Madam, whether there be any Protestant service in Paris?"

"I imagine there is a Huguenot prêche somewhere—or was one. I am not sure if I heard not something about His Majesty having stopped them. Do not put your Protestantism too much forward there—the Court do not like it."

"I have nothing to do with the Court, Madam," said Celia, with sudden firmness; "and I am a Protestant, and I cannot disguise my religion."

"Oh dear! your Protestant consciences!" murmured Lady Ingram. "But you have to do with the Court, my friend; it is to the Court that I am taking you. Do you suppose that I live in the atmosphere of a recluse? When I am an old woman of eighty, ma chère, very likely I shall repair to a convent to make my salvation; but not just now, if you please."

"I am not an old woman—" Celia was beginning, but Lady Ingram interrupted her.

"Precisely, ma belle. The very reason why it is so absurd of you to make a recluse of yourself, as I see you would like to do,—unless, indeed, you had a vocation. But, so far as I know, Protestants never have such things."

"What things, Madam?"

"Vocations, my dear—calls to the religious life."

"Madam!" exclaimed Celia, very much astonished, "ought we not all to lead religious lives?"

"You are so absurd!" laughed Lady Ingram. "You absolutely do not understand what is meant by the religious life. My dear child (for a child you are indeed), the life which we all lead is the secular: we eat, drink, talk, sleep, dance, game and marry. These are the seculars who do these things. The religious are those who, having a call from Heaven, consecrate themselves entirely to God, and deny themselves all pleasures whatever, and so much of necessaries as is consistent with the preservation of life. Their mortification is accepted by Heaven, when extreme, not only for their own sins, but for the sins of any secular friend to whom they may desire to apply the merit of it. Now do you understand? Ma foi! what a grave, saint-like conversation you provoke!"

"Not at all, Madam."

"Let me hear your views then."

Had Celia been left free to choose, Lady Ingram was about the last person in her little world to whom she would have wished to give a reason for the hope that was in her. But she felt that there was no choice, and she must make the effort, though not in her own strength. She lifted up her heart to God for wisdom, and then spoke with a quiet decision which surprised her step-mother.

"Madam, I believe all persons to be religious who love God, and whom God loves. Because God loved us, He gave His Son to die for us, that we who believe in Him might have eternal life. It is He who saves us, not we who make our own salvation; and it is because we love God that we wish to serve Him."

"Well, my dear," answered Lady Ingram, slowly, as if considering Celia's speech, "I can see very little difference between us, except that you would have all men hermits and friars instead of some. We both believe in Jesus Christ, of course; and no doubt there is a certain sense in which the religious feel love to God, and this love inclines them to the cloister. I do not therefore see wherein we differ except on a few unimportant points."

Celia saw an immense distance between them, on points neither few nor unimportant; but the courage which had risen to a high tide was ebbing away, and her heart failed her.

"Well, this will do for to-day, my fair divine," said Lady Ingram, with a smile. "Now bring me my silk-winders, and hold that skein of red silk while I wind it—or stay, is that a matter of conscience, my little votaress?"

"On the Lord's Day, Madam, it is, if you please."

"Very well, let the silk alone; I can wind it to-morrow just as well. Would it be breaking the Sabbath for you to tell Thérèse that I wish to speak with her? Pray don't if you feel at all uncomfortable."

Celia gave the message to Thérèse, and then locked herself into her own room, and relieved her feelings by another fit of crying.

V. THE HARRYING OF LAUCHIE.

"'Have I received,' he answered, 'at thine hands Favors so sweet they went to mine heart-root, And could I not accept one bitter fruit?'" LEIGH HUNT.

"Now, use your eyes, my young anchorite—if it be not wicked to look out of the window: this is the Rue de Rivoli, the finest street in Paris. By the way, you ought not to have been ill in crossing the Channel—so very undignified. Here is my town-house—that with the portico. Till your manners are formed, I shall give you a private closet as well as a bedroom, and an antechamber where you can take lessons in French and dancing.—— Good evening, St. Estèphe! Is Monsieur Philippe here?"

"Monsieur Philippe is not at himself, Madame; he ride out with Monsieur Bontems."

Lady Ingram knitted her brows, as if the information were not agreeable to her. She alighted, and desired Celia to follow her up-stairs. Through suites of spacious rooms, splendidly furnished, and along wide corridors she led the way to a quiet suite of apartments at one end of the house—an antechamber, a bedroom, and a small but elegant boudoir.

"These are your rooms," she said. "I will give you a new attendant, for I must have Thérèse to myself now. These will be entirely at your disposal, within certain restrictions. I shall visit you every morning, to have your masters' opinions as to your improvement, and you will take a dish of coffee or chocolate with me in my boudoir at four o'clock every afternoon. Until you are formed, you must dine alone, except when I dine entirely en famille. Your masters will attend you in the antechamber every morning. No one must be permitted to cross the threshold of your boudoir, except myself and your brothers, your own attendant, or any person sent by me. Do you dislike that?"

"No, Madam; I am very glad to hear it."

"Ah! my Sister of St. Ursula!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "But remember this is only until you are formed, and the sooner that happens the better pleased I shall be."

"I am anxious to obey your wishes in everything not forbidden by my conscience, Madam."

"Very well," said Lady Ingram, still laughing. "The conscience requires a little formation too, ma belle, as well as the manners. Farewell! I will send your attendant."

She sailed away with her usual languid stateliness, and Celia went forward into the bedroom. She was vainly endeavoring to find an unlocked drawer in which to place her hood and cloak, when a low, quiet voice behind her said:

"Here are the keys, Madam. Will you allow me to open them for you?"

Celia looked up into a face which won her confidence at once. Its owner was a woman of middle height, whose age might be slightly under sixty. Her dress was of almost Quaker simplicity, and black. Her hair and eyes were of no particular color, but light rather than dark; her face wore no expression beyond a placid calm. But Celia fancied that she saw a peculiar, deep look in the eyes, as if those now passionless features might have borne an expression of great suffering once.

"Oh, thank you!" said Celia, simply. "Is it you whom my Lady promised to send?"

"I am to be your woman, Madam. I am her Ladyship's sewing-woman; my name is Patient Irvine."

The "lady's woman" of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was the ancestress rather of the modern companion than of the maid. She was called by her Christian or surname, sewed for her mistress, and assisted her in dressing; but in every other particular the mistress and maid were upon equal terms. The "woman" was her lady's constant companion, and nearly always her confidante. She sat at her mistress's table, went with her into company, and appeared as a member of her family when she received her friends. As a rule, she was the equal of her lady in education, and not seldom her superior. Her inferiority lay in birth and fortune, sometimes in the latter only.

"And what would you like me to call you?—Patience or Irvine?" asked Celia of her new acquaintance.

"Patient, if you please, Madam."

"Patient—not Patience?"

"I was not baptized Patience, Madam. My father was a Scottish Covenanter, and he named me, his first-born child, 'The-Patient-Waiting-for-Christ.'"

"What a strange name!" involuntarily exclaimed Celia.

"Yes, Madam; very strange, I doubt not, to such as have never met with our Puritan practice of Scripture-text names. I have known divers such."

"Do the Puritans, then, commonly give their children such names?"

"Very often, Madam. I had an aunt who was called 'We-Love-Him-Because-He-First-Loved-Us.'"

"They called her Love for short, I suppose?"

"Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her calm, passive manner.

Celia thought this very odd indeed, and turned the conversation, lest she should get comic associations with texts of Scripture of which she could not afterwards divest herself. She wondered that Patient did not feel the ludicrous strangeness of the practice, not knowing that all sense of the ludicrous had been left out of Patient's composition.

"And how long have you lived in France, Patient?"

"Since I was of the age of twenty years, Madam Celia."

"You know my name, then?" said Celia, smiling.

"I know you, Madam, much better than you know me. I have borne you about in mine arms as a babe of a few hours old. And just now, when I saw you, you looked to mine eyes as the very image from the dead of my dear Miss Magdalene."