BOOK II. (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 20.

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

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

October 1, Cross Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 15.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 18.

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

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

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

October 20.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 22.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there no village school?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 25.

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

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

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

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

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

October 22.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" he asked.

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

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

He stared at me like one amazed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very likely he only meant to beg."

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

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

October 23.

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 24.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't understand," said I.

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

I did so, and saw it all.

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

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

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

"But how should she get the notion?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 28.

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

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

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

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

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

"What an odd name!" I remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 5. London.

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

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

November 6.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Williams's comment was an unexpected one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And where is Mr. Pendergast?"

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

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

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

Mrs. Williams shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Marry again, perhaps," I suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Hill, December 1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 10.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was the favor like?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 31.

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

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

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

"Why are the chimes ringing?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

I drank the broth obediently.

"How good it tastes!" said I.

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my dear, Christmas morning."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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