Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

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

[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]

[Year 1684]

Through

Unknown Ways

An Old-World Story

BY

L. E. GUERNSEY

[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]

AUTHOR OF

"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK,"
"THE FOSTER-SISTERS," ETC.

NEW EDITION

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS.

BOOK I. December 10, 1684.

BOOK II. August 1, 1685.

BOOK III. Studley Hall, 1687.

THROUGH UNKNOWN WAYS.

BOOK I.

December 10, 1684.       

PERHAPS I may as well begin this book by telling how I came to write it at all. Lady Corbet, my mistress (I suppose I ought to say mine "honored" mistress, but I sha'n't: I am going to have the comfort of speaking my mind in these pages, if nowhere else). But to begin again, in a more orderly fashion. Lady Corbet, with whom I am living as waiting-gentlewoman, companion, and general butt for ill-humors,—there I go again,—well, Lady Corbet took it in her head to give me the use of this cabinet. She was making a tour of inspection of the whole house to which we have just removed, and had been put into a better humor than was usual with her so early in the day by finding in this very cabinet a purse with three gold pieces and some silver, left here I suppose by Sir Charles's first wife,— poor, pretty Lady Jemima, whose portrait by Lely hangs in the great parlor. My lady clutched the purse as a dog snaps at a bone, and dropped it into her pocket. Then she took up a knot or favor of rose-colored ribbon spangled with silver which lay beside it, still fresh and pretty, and smelling of roses like every thing else in the cabinet.

"See there, child!" said she, turning to me. "The poor bedizened thing had to leave all her finery and fallals behind her when she went to the grave. There is a lesson for you."

"And her money also, madam," said Mrs. Williams, her woman, who had followed us with a light cloak which she laid about Lady Corbet's shoulders. Mrs. Williams is not afraid of my lady, as I am. But then, she can leave when she pleases.

"What do yo you mean, Williams?" asked my lady. "Of course I know that. We must leave every thing behind us when we die. You have heard me say that a thousand times."

"Not quite every thing," said Mrs. Williams. "I think, my lady, this would be a good room for Mrs. Dolly. It is not near enough for her to disturb you, and yet she can hear when you whistle."

My heart jumped at this proposal, but, knowing my lady, I was careful not to show any pleasure. On the contrary, when Mrs. Williams appealed to me, I answered, "It would do well enough, I supposed."

"Well enough! Yes, I think it will do well enough and too well for a chit like you, since it has served an earl's daughter in its time," said my lady tartly. "You shall have this room, and no other, do you hear? And you can have this cabinet to keep your finery in."

"Yes, I have so much finery!" I could not help saying.

"Oh, you are not so badly off as all that!" answered my lady. "One would think you had not clothes to your back!"

"Mrs. Dolly will need some new gowns, my lady," said Mrs. Williams. "I had better buy her a camlet for Sundays, and some stuff for every day."

"Nonsense! You can make over my gray camlet for her, if she needs it. However, I don't mind for once. Here, child, is a guinea for you, and mind you take care of it. You were best let Williams buy your gowns, however. There, I won't go any farther to-day. Tell Jeremy to bring your mail up here, and you can be putting your things in order while I am resting. But don't disturb me with your noise, and be ready to read to me when I wake."

This conversation took place the day before yesterday, on which day my Lady Corbet removed from her own house, where she has lived ever since she became a widow, to this which was the mansion of her late husband, Sir Charles Corbet. She has never been here before since his death, but has lived in her own house in the city. But the land having become valuable, and this house standing empty, she all at once made up her mind to remove. The house was already furnished, so it was no great trouble. For some reason which I don't understand, it has never been lived in since Sir Charles died, and was damp and dingy enough. But a few charwomen, under Mrs. Williams's active superintendence, soon gave it another aspect, and now it is nice and pleasant, and even my lady admits is far more sunny and healthful than her city abode.

For my part, I am glad of the change with all my heart. It "is" a change, for one thing, and I have had but little variety heretofore. Then we are at the court end of the town, not far from Whitehall, and there is a deal of coming and going of fine equipages and of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. Best of all, I can see from mine own window a good piece of the park and of the water where the king keeps his tame fowls. They say he walks there early every morning: so, if I rise soon enough, I may chance to see him.

To return to my story. I unpacked my mail, which was no heavy task, seeing I have so few personal belongings, and then set myself to examine the cabinet. It is large and very pretty, inlaid with ivory and brass work, and having many drawers and compartments. I discovered nothing save a few old-fashioned trinkets in a private drawer, some odds and ends of ribbon and lace, and a great heap of letters and bills, very few of which were receipted. There were two or three cupboards in the room. And on the top shelf of one of these I deposited all the papers, meaning to look over the letters at my leisure.

In clearing out one of the compartments, I touched a spring, it seems; for the whole panel at the back slipped aside, and disclosed a tolerably deep recess, wherein was a pile of books, neatly bound and clasped. Eagerly I pulled them out and opened them, hoping to find something in the way of entertaining reading, but they were all blank paper. In the beginning of the largest was written, in a somewhat stiff hand, this inscription:

   "When I was wedded, my dear and honored mother gave me a set of books like to these, in order that I might keep an account of my private expenses, and also set down such matters of interest as I might wish to remember, and such pieces of devotion as should be useful to me. I have followed her counsel in this matter all my life, and have found great benefit therein. I give these books to my dear daughter Jemima that she may follow the same practice."

But it seems Lady Jem never did follow it to any great extent; for the books are all blank, with the exception of a few items set down on the first page of the account book, and two or three receipts for washes and cordials in the others. I was musing over the old-fashioned, cramped handwriting, and wondering what the good old lady would have said to her daughter's gay career,—but she died, happily or unhappily, soon after Lady Jem's marriage,—when the thought occurred to me, why should not I keep a journal, and so have some place to pour out my thoughts, which place I have not now.

Mrs. Williams is kind to me always, and I believe she is truly my friend, but she never encourages me to talk about myself or my mistress. Perhaps she is right and wise, but, at any rate, that is her way. I used to make something of a confidant of Mrs. Ursula Robertson, my lady's cousin, who visits here now and then. But one day I heard her repeating to my lady some slighting remarks which Mrs. Pendergast, the minister's wife, had made about her, and that was enough for me.

"A dog that will fetch a bone will carry a bone," is an old, and mayhap a somewhat vulgar, proverb, but it is a true one. I have no doubt now that she led me on to say things about my mistress which she afterward repeated to her, and thus helped to set her against me.

Well, all of a sudden the thought came into my mind, "Why should not I make a friend of these books, and confide to them. They at least, will not tattle again, since I have a snug hiding-place for them."

I am usually sure of two hours every day, while my lady takes her afternoon nap, and I can sometimes gain another by early rising in summer,—not at this time of year, however, for my lady keeps count of every inch of candle burned in the house.

December 21.       

It was late when I found my treasures yesterday, and I had little time to write, but my lady to-day dismissed me earlier than usual, and I hastened to my retreat. I cannot enough thank Mrs. Williams for securing it to me. Where we lived before, my room was directly over my lady's, and I could not stir but she heard me, but here I might dance a reel, and she be none the wiser. But I said I would begin with the story of my life, and here it is.

I was born on Christmas Day in 1667, and ought therefore to be a very lucky child, but my luck, if I ever fulfil my destiny, is yet to come. I do not remember my father at all. He was a cousin of Sir Charles Corbet's, and died fighting the Moors at Bombain¹—that barren piece of the queen's dowry, which is like to cost a good deal more than it will ever come to. (I believe, after all, they were Indians and not Moors, and that the Moors live at Tangier: but it does not greatly matter.)

¹ What we now call Bombay.

My mother being left a widow, with but small means,—for she never had even my father's back pay, much less the pension which was promised her,—bethought herself of turning her very good education to account by opening a school for young ladies at Hackney, where we then lived. And an opportunity offering, she went into partnership with a lady who had for a long time kept a boarding-school. Mrs. Price was her name, and she was a wealthy woman. She was getting on in years, and needed an assistant. And knowing of my mother, she sent for her, and proposed to put into her hands the active duties of the school, she herself remaining at the head of the establishment. My mother jumped at the chance, for it was truly a good one, better than she had any reason to expect. It gave her the opportunity of learning the ways of a good school, and at the same time of educating me, then a tall girl of five years old.

But here my dear mother made a great mistake. She put all her little capital, some hundreds of pounds, into the hands of Mrs. Price's man of business, without a scrap of acknowledgment,—not even a receipt. He was Mrs. Price's nephew, and he made great professions of piety. His aunt trusted him entirely, and my poor mother thought she could do no less. All went well enough for some years. My mother managed the school and the young ladies, and I went on with my education. I was always fond of my book, and especially of my music and languages. And at fifteen I could write and read well, speak French and a little Italian, dance, and play on the lute and virginals. I had my little troubles and school scrapes, of course, and was crossed and contradicted, like other young things. But I do not believe many people have had a happier life than I enjoyed up to that time.

Then my troubles began. Mrs. Price died first. She had always said she meant to leave the school and the house to my mother, having no near kin but her nephew, who was rich already. But no will was to be found. Mr. Harpe—Harpy he ought to have been called—took possession of every thing, even to the poor lady's clothes, and coolly told my mother he did not mean to continue the school, and so should have no occasion for her services. And when she demanded the return of the three hundred pounds she had put into his hands, he had the audacity to deny the whole thing, and defy her to prove that he owed her any thing, and she could not prove it. Mrs. Price, the only person knowing to the transaction, was dead and gone. And, as I said, mother had not a receipt or a scrap of paper to substantiate her claim. She had ten pounds in her pocket, and Mr. Harpe had the generosity to give her ten more, saying, that though she had tried to wrong him, he would not turn her out penniless, and adding something in his sanctimonious tone about returning good for evil, which made me long to choke him.

It must have gone hard with mother to take the money, for she was a high-spirited woman, but I suppose she thought of me, and put her pride in her pocket. A good woman lived near us whose daughter had been my school friend. Poor Emma had died not long before of a waste, and my mother had helped to nurse her. This good lady gave us a home, though she was far from being rich. And in her house, my dear mother died when I was sixteen. She said on her death-bed that she wished she could take me with her, and I am sure I wish she had. Bab Andrews was reading the other day of some Indians who buried girl babies with their dead mothers. I am not sure but it is a good way.

The lady with whom I lived, Mrs. Jenkins, was related to Mrs. Williams, my Lady Corbet's woman. Through her, she made known to Sir Charles Corbet, my kinsman, my forlorn condition, and he and Mrs. Williams somehow coaxed my lady to take me into her service. And here I have been for two miserable years, the slave of her whims, and the butt of her ill-temper. Sir Charles was good to me, in his careless way, while he lived, but he died only a year after my entrance into the family. They say he married my lady for her money, and because she promised to pay his debts. If so, I am sure he paid dearly for the help she gave him. Such a life as she led him! But he was a man, and could get away from home. And now and then he would assert himself, and fairly make her afraid of him, as when she insisted on removing the likeness of Lady Jemima, which I have mentioned before, from the drawing-room. I expected to see the picture consigned to the garret when we came back here, but I do believe she has a superstitious dread of touching it.

When Sir Charles lay on his death-bed, he called me to him one day, and gave me a gold chain, with a little locket attached to it, in the shape of a small egg, bidding me put it on and wear it, but secretly. Then calling on Dr. Clark and his own man, who were both in the room, he bade them bear witness that he gave me the locket.

"Promise me that you will never open it till you are married, and then only on some pinch, when you need money: and, above all, never let my wife see it. Promise me!" he said earnestly, holding my hand with a clasp that hurt me.

"I promise," said I.

"That is well," he answered. "Now look in the back of yonder drawer, and bring me a picture you will find there."

I did so. It was a miniature of Lady Jemima, with a chain attached.

"Put it round my neck," he said to his man Richards, who was waiting on him.

Richards did so, I helping him. Sir Charles thanked us both, and kissed me. Seeing a change in his face, which I knew too well, I ventured to suggest that he should send for a clergyman.

"Do, Sir Charles! It can do no harm," urged poor Richards, the tears running down his face, for he loved his master. "Do let me or Mrs. Dolly run for Dr. Gibson."

Sir Charles shook his head, with a faint smile. "No, no!" said he. "At least, I will make no false pretences."

"But, dear cousin, it need not be a pretence," I said. "Do but try to trust in God."

He shook his head again. "No, child: I have doubted so long, I have lost the power of believing. Dress me for the grave yourself, Richards, and see that the picture lies on my heart."

"At least let Mrs. Dolly call my lady," said the doctor, for he changed more and more.

"No, no! Let me at least die in peace. I am glad she is not here." And in a moment he was gone.

My lady made no great pretence of grief for her husband, beyond putting on very deep weeds. I do not think she ever cared for him. He married for money, and she because she had an ambition for title and fashion. Both were disappointed in a great measure: for he was ashamed of her, and would never take her to court; and her money was all tied up in her own hands. She gave him what she liked, and I fancy that was very little.

Of course I never told my lady of Sir Charles's dying gift, and should not, even if I had not promised. She would insist on opening it, and would probably take it away from me altogether. I cannot open the locket myself, if I would. It has no visible opening, though of course there must be one somewhere. And I would not if I could—at least, I think not.

December 24.       

Christmas Eve—but one must not dare to say "Christmas" in this house. At Mrs. Price's school we used to have fine doings on Christmas Eve for the family, and those of the ladies who did not go home for the holidays. We used to dress up the great schoolroom with ivy and holly, and Mrs. Price would always have a branch of mistletoe hung in the midst, to keep up old fashions, as she said; though her pious nephew, Mr. Harpe, shook his head at it, and said it was a relic of paganism and unfit for a Christian household. Then we had grand games of "hunt the slipper," "hoodman blind," and "forfeits," ending off at nine with a fine hot supper of spiced frumenty and plum-porridge.

On Christmas Day we all went to church, and came home to a dinner of beef, fowls, and plum-pudding for all the household. Mistress Price did love to see happy faces about her, and she had an assistant, like-minded with herself, in dear mother. After dinner we used to carry little gifts we had made to the poor old people and orphan children who lived at some old almshouses which joined our garden at the back,—another practice to which Mr. Harpe objected,—and when we came home, we found each a pretty Christmas-box by her plate at supper-time.

My last one, I know, was a prayer-book bound in purple leather. I had it for a long time, but unluckily one day my lady caught sight of it, and took it away, saying she would have no such rags of popery under her roof. Since then I have never seen one, nor have I been inside a church since I came to this house. My lady never goes to any place of worship. She says she is not able, though she can go to other places when she has a mind. I heard Mr. Baxter remonstrating with her about it the last time he was here. She answered shortly, that she best knew the state of her own health, adding,—

"But I hate prelacy and popery and all their adherents as much as you do, Mr. Baxter."

"Madam," said the old gentleman, "I must tell you that a religion which has no foundation but hatred is not likely to be very acceptable to the God of love."

Whereat my lady looked blacker than a thundercloud, but she stands too much in awe of Mr. Baxter to fall upon him. However, she took it out on me afterward. I could not blame Mr. Baxter if he did hate the prelatists, for certainly he has had very hard measure, but no one has ever molested my lady. But I don't think Mr. Baxter has any such feeling. Certainly I too have had hard measure from Mr. Harpe and my lady, but I don't hate all Presbyterians for their sake. On the contrary, I am very sorry for them, and think them very hardly dealt by. And I do like Mr. Baxter and the Pendergasts.

I am indebted to Mr. Baxter for a good turn, and I shall not forget it. One day when I went out alone, I found on a bookstall a book new to me. It was a kind of fable or allegory, called "The Pilgrim's Progress;" and, after reading a few pages therein, I took such a fancy to it that I bought it for sixpence. I was so silly as to take it out one day in my lady's room, and of course she came in and caught me. She took the book away, and was going to burn it, but at Mrs. Williams's intercession she kept it to show to Mr. Baxter, whom she expected that evening. He took it and looked it over with interest.

"I have heard of the volume, but never have seen it before," said he. And then turning to me, with his usual politeness he added, "With your leave, Mrs. Dolly, I will take the book home and examine it at my leisure."

"Of course you can do so," said my lady, taking the words out of my mouth as I was about to answer. "'Tis not for her to say what books she shall read, I trove. But is not this Bunyan a Quaker or some such thing? I am sure I have heard so."

"He is an Anabaptist, and so in some sort a heretic, no doubt," answered Mr. Baxter, "but, from all I have heard of him, I believe that he is a good man, and preaches the root of the matter."

He took the book away with him, and I never expected to see it again, but he returned it the next day with a note, saying that he could honestly recommend the piece as not only orthodox, but edifying, and likely to interest young people, whose imaginations were naturally taken with truth conveyed in the form of an allegory or tale. He also enclosed with it a sermon on the peculiar errors of the Anabaptists, which he hoped I would read. And so I did, for I read it aloud to my lady. I can't say I was much the wiser; for by long practice on the kind of books my lady affects, I have learned the art of reading aloud tolerably well, and thinking my own thoughts at the same time.

I began to read "The Pilgrim's Progress" to her, but she soon stopped me, saying it was only a fairy tale, just fit for such fools as I was. My own notion is that it stirred up her conscience, and that she did not like the feeling. So I had my book to myself. And I have read it more than once, though it makes me uncomfortable. For, if it be true, what is my condition? I know very well I am not religious. I do not even pretend to be so any more. Only that I know a few people like Mr. Baxter and Mrs. Williams, and that I remember my own mother, I should think all religion a mere pretence and hypocrisy. My lady never goes to any place of worship, as I said. I don't believe her health has any thing to do with the matter, however. I think she is afraid of fines and sequestrations, and of being asked for money. I know she was very angry at being asked to contribute to a fund for the support of some poor minister's family, so much so that when Mr. Pendergast came again she would not see him. It must be very disagreeable to be on the losing side, and yet take no comfort in one's religion, but, to be sure, she has the pleasure of being contrary.

There is her whistle, and I know by the very sound that she is in a temper. I shall not go till I have put away my books, however. She may as well scold for one thing as another.

December 25, Christmas Day.       

But not much like Christmas. Nothing would serve my lady but a dinner of dried ling and parsnips. However, Mary Mathews had leave to go see her mother, and she brought me home a mince-pie. How homelike it tasted! In the evening, however, we did have some diversion. Ursula Robertson came in, and brought her cousin, who has just returned from Scotland where he had a command. He is a fine, handsome, personable man, and polite in a frank, soldierly fashion, and evidently took my lady's fancy; at which I wondered, for certainly he makes no pretensions to sanctity.

"Where have you served?" she asked him by and by.

"At Tangier mostly, madam, and since then in Scotland."

Now, we all know what service in Scotland means. And I expected to see my lady fly out, but she did not.

"You will find England but dull after such a stirring life abroad," said she. "Why did you come home?"

"On account of sickness, madam. I was so ill that my life was despaired of, and an old wound that I got fighting the Moors broke out again." And then he added some compliment about the sight of fair English faces working a cure, with a deep reverence, as he spoke, to Ursula and me. He makes a very graceful bow.

"I will not have Dolly's head turned with compliments," said my lady. "She is quite vain enough as it is. And what are you about now, if one may ask?"

"My good lady the Duchess of Portsmouth has promised to use her interest to procure for me a small place about the court," answered Mr. Morley (that is his name, though I forgot to say so); "no great matter, but enough for the modest wants of a poor cavalier till he has the luck to make his fortune."

"Oh, you think to marry an heiress, I dare say!" said my lady sharply.

And then, some other guests coming in, she turned to them, and left Mr. Morley to entertain us young ones.

I must say he made himself very agreeable. When they were going away, Ursula seized a chance to ask me how I liked her cousin.

"Well enough, all I have seen of him," said I. "But what do your father and your aunt and uncle Pendergast say to him?"

"Oh, my father does not trouble himself about him, and my uncle and aunt have not seen him! But is he not a gallant gentleman? It was a fine thing his knowing the Duchess of Portsmouth when they were both young. But for her, he never would have got this promotion. 'Tis a fine thing to have court influence," she added somewhat enviously. "But of course we poor Presbyterians can't hope for such a thing."

"I don't believe your father or your uncle Pendergast would accept of promotion from such a quarter," said I.

"Oh, well, of course it is different with a young man and a soldier, and my cousin Morley does not pretend to be religious!"

But I don't see what difference that makes. If there be any thing in religion at all, then the neglecting thereof cannot be an excuse for, but only an aggravation of, wrong-doing.

Twelfth Day, 1685.       

I wish holidays could be left out of the year, or else that I could forget them, since they only bring up sorrowful memories. What famous Twelfth Day games we used to have at Mrs. Price's! The very last one I spent there, I got the bean in the cake, and was crowned with a fine coronet of gilt paper, beset with beads, which dear mother had prepared on the sly for a surprise to us. To think that is only two years ago: it seems like a lifetime.

However, I did have something like a holiday to-day, for my lady, being in a wonderful good humor, allowed me to go with Ursula to her uncle's house, that we might see the king passing to dine with the mayor and aldermen. I had a good look at his Majesty and the Duke of York. They have both harsh features, and could never be called handsome if they were not royal personages, but I like the king's face the best of the two, because it is the better-natured. I saw that he smiled kindly on a poor woman who pressed forward to put a petition into his hand. I saw, too, that he presently let it drop without ever looking at it: so his good-nature did not amount to very much. The Duke of York looked black as night all the time.

"His Majesty is not looking well," said a voice at my elbow. I turned with a start, and saw Mr. Morley.

"How came you hither?" asked Ursula rather tartly.

"What a question! Ask the iron how it comes to the lodestone," answered Capt. Morley, with a deep reverence which included both of us. "Not being in waiting to-day, what more natural than that I should give a visit to my fair kinswoman, and, learning that she was gone abroad, what more natural than that I should follow her?"

"You have learned your courtier's trade already," said Ursula. "Soldiers do not pay such fine compliments, do they, Dolly?"

"How should I know," I answered, "since I never knew either courtier or soldier in all my life?"

"No, I fancy good Mrs. Price did not allow such dangerous creatures in her bounds," returned Ursula, whereat Capt. Morley said something about the dragon that kept the gardens where grew the golden fruit. "But we all know that the sweetest flowers bloom in shady places," he added, at which Ursula looked ready to bite.

I don't know why he should bestow so many fine phrases on me, unless he wishes to make Ursula jealous; and I don't know why he should wish to do that, for he must know that his cousin is contracted already to a merchant in the city. And even if she were not, her father would hardly give her to a needy courtier, and one, too, who has been a persecutor under Claverhouse. Mr. Andrews, Ursula's servant, coming in at that moment, Mr. Morley devoted himself specially to me, and I must say made himself very agreeable.

Ursula recovered her good humor in some degree when Mr. Andrews made his appearance, but I could see she was all the time listening to hear what Mr. Morley was saying to me. Mr. Andrews is a fine, personable man, rich, and of good address and education. I think she might be satisfied with him.

"I hear the king is not quite himself these days," said Mr. Andrews, addressing himself to Mr. Morley.

"'Tis true, sir, I am sorry to say," answered Mr. Morley. "I trust it is nothing serious, however, no more than a passing indisposition."

"And so must all," remarked Mr. Andrews, "since his Majesty hath no son to succeed him."

"Then you are not one of those who believe in the black box?"

"What, in the Duke of Monmouth's claim? Not I, sir!" answered Mr. Andrews, laughing. "I would as soon believe in mine own." And then, more seriously, "I trust no one will be so ill-advised and cruel as to set on that young man to put forward a claim which can never be substantiated."

"You would perhaps rather have Oliver back!" said Ursula maliciously. "We all know what your father's politics are, Mr. Andrews. He was one of Oliver's Ironsides, was he not?"

"You may easily know what are my father's politics, Mrs. Ursula," said the good man, his honest face flushing at her tone, which was sufficiently contemptuous: "no secret was ever made of them that I know of. My father was not in the Ironsides, however. He commanded a ship under the Parliament, and helped to humble the pride of the Dutch, who did not come up the river to Chatham in those days."

"Well said, man, and I like you all the better for standing up for your father," said Capt. Morley (he really is a captain it seems), striking him on the shoulder. "Your father was not the only old Puritan who has done the king good service, and I dare say you would do the same."

"I am beholden to you for your good opinion, sir," answered Mr. Andrews, with much dignity. And then he turned away, and began talking with Mrs. Robertson.

Ursula sulked a little, but seeming by and by to think she had gone far enough, she began to exert all her arts of pleasing, which are neither few nor small, and soon had her lover at her feet again. Poor man, I think he is far too good for her!

We walked home together, and Ursula must needs come in and tell my lady all about every thing, and how much attention I had received. Whereby she earned me a fine rating for forwardness and vanity, which, no doubt, was what she intended.

January 20.       

'Tis a long time since I wrote in my book. My lady hath been ill—seriously, but not dangerously—with rheumatism, and Mrs. Williams and I have had our hands full. The doctor tells her she must go to the Bath as soon as the weather is warm enough, and she says she will; but I don't believe it. She will never make up her mind to spend so much money. Of course I have been pretty closely shut up, but I have been out a few times to do errands, and now and then in the early morning to walk a little.

Once I ventured as far as the park, which, indeed, is not very far, and saw his Majesty taking his morning walk with only one or two attendants, and flinging bits of bread to his tame ducks and swans. Capt. Morley was in attendance, and put off his hat to me. The king looked at me curiously, and I suppose asked who I was. He turned presently, and, as I curtsied, he said kindly,—

"Good-morrow, sweetheart! You are sunning your roses early."

"When you do not know what to say, say nothing," was my mother's maxim: so I only curtsied again, and hastened home, feeling rather scared, and yet pleased, that I had had a word from his Majesty. He hath a pleasant way with him, and his face, when lighted by a smile, is very winning. 'Tis a pity he were not a different man in some ways.

I have seen Capt. Morley two or three times. He is always very polite. Once he gave me an orange, but I dared not eat it lest the smell thereof should betray me to my lady. So I gave it to Mary Mathews for her sick father. I kept a bit of the skin, however, and it is in my cabinet now.

February 1.       

'Tis said the king is very ill, and not like to be better. He had a kind of fit this morning, and at noon had not yet recovered consciousness. Capt. Morley looked in to tell us the sad news.

February 2.       

His Majesty is no better. All the principal physicians and surgeons in town are by his bedside. The archbishop and two or three other bishops are in attendance, and one or other has sat up with him every night. One sees nothing but tears and sad faces, and people throng to the churches in crowds to pray for the king's life. Ursula was here, and told us of these things. She has reasons more than one to pray for his recovery, for of course his death must put off her marriage which was fixed for next week.

February 5.       

It was said this morning that the king was better, and the church-bells rang merrily. Being sent out to match some silk for Mrs. Williams's work, and having a little time on my hands, I stepped into a church, the doors of which were open, and knelt down to offer a prayer myself; but the sound of the minister's voice, the sight of the chancel, and the very air and scent of the place did so awaken old memories that I could do naught but cry. When I rose from my knees, I saw next me a lady with whom I have some acquaintance, Lady Clarenham. She had a young relation at Mrs. Price's school, and used to come sometimes to visit her. And the little maid being in some sort under my care—for she was very young—the lady was pleased to thank me for my attention, and give me a gold piece for a token.

Lady Clarenham knew me directly, and greeted me very kindly. She is a pretty, rather elderly lady; and I like her all the better that she does not try to look "young," as almost everybody does nowadays. I asked after little Mrs. Patty.

"Oh, she is well, and grown almost a woman!" answered my lady. "She often talks of you."

And then she asked me of my welfare, and how I was living, and I told her. We were in the porch by this time; a young gentleman standing by, whom I took to belong to her family, as he seemed to be waiting for her.

"I used to know the Lady Jemima Corbet," said Lady Clarenham. "I think I must give this lady a visit, and ask her to spare you to me for a day or two, at least if you would like to come."

"Yes, indeed, madam," I answered.

And then, startled to see how late it was, I hastened home. My lady was asleep when I came in, and Mrs. Williams asked me what had kept me so long. I told her frankly that I had stepped into a church to say a prayer for the king, and there I had met with an old acquaintance, who had kept me talking a few minutes.

"And who was that, pray, Mistress Gadabout?" asked my lady, opening her eyes suddenly.

I told her that it was my Lady Clarenham.

"And pray what had my Lady Clarenham to say to you, and how came you to know her?"

I told her.

"Then you may tell my Lady Clarenham, next time you see her, that I want none of her visits. A fine tale, indeed, when errand-girls and chamber-maids receive visits from titled ladies!—Williams, why did you send her out at all?"

"I needed sewing-silk to finish your gown, my lady," answered Mrs. Williams.

"And why need you use silk at all,—or if you must needs have it, why could you not save what you ripped out?" demanded my lady. "I shall be ruined, ruined out of house and home, by all this waste and extravagance, and paying for doctors and medicine. I shall die in an almshouse."

"And what harm will that do you, madam?" asked Mrs. Williams tranquilly.

My lady stared at her.

"What harm, quotha! What harm!" she repeated, almost gasping for breath.

"Yes, what harm?" said Mrs. Williams. "When one has been dead two minutes, what difference will it make whether one has died in an almshouse or in Whitehall, since both must be left behind forever?"

"Pshaw! Don't talk any of your Muggletonian and Independent rant to me!" said my lady. (Mrs. Williams is some kind of Independent,—I don't know what exactly,—and when my lady wants to take it out on her, she calls her a Muggletonian.) "I am a practical woman, and take a practical view of things.— Dolly, what news did you hear? For of course your ears were open: trust a waiting-woman for that!"

I told her that every one said the king was better, and almost out of danger.

"I have never believed he was going to die," said she,—"a strong man, and not older that I am. It was not likely he would give up to the first illness."

But people die at all ages. To-night Mr. Morley came in to tell us that the king was given over by his physicians, and was not likely to live the night out.

"And what then?" asked my lady.

"Why, then, God save King James, I suppose," answered Mr. Morley, lightly enough. And then, more seriously, "There will be many sad hearts in this nation by this time to-morrow."

"May God give him space for repentance!" said Mrs. Williams, so solemnly that we were all silent for a minute. And then she asked, "Do you know the state of his mind, sir?"

"No, madam," answered Mr. Morley. "I know that the archbishop and bishop have told him that he could not live, and wished to administer the communion, but he will not have it."

"And what reason does he give?"

"Sometimes he says there is time enough, and sometimes that he is too weak. There are those that have their own thoughts about the matter, as I have myself. And not the less that Tom Chiffinch brought honest old Father Huddleston up the back stairs to-day. Marry, he hath purveyed other company up those stairs in his time!"

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Williams gravely. "'Tis a serious thing to say, Mr. Morley."

"Oh, other folks have eyes in their heads beside me!" answered Mr. Morley. "The old man was disguised, but half a dozen people saw him."

"Then you would imply that his Majesty is a Papist?" said my lady.

"I, madam! I imply nothing. I am but a poor gentleman of the back stairs, and it would not become me to imply things of his Majesty."

"So I think," said Mrs. Williams dryly.

"I suppose Mr. Morley thinks he shall lose his place anyhow, so he can say what he likes," observed my lady, improving the occasion to say something disagreeable, as usual.

"Oh, as to that, his royal Highness is my very good master," answered Mr. Morley. "I hope I shall get a troop, and be in active service again, which is a better life for a man than hanging round a court.—Think you not so, Mrs. Dolly?"

"I think I should like it better, but it would depend a good deal on the nature of the service," I answered. "I don't think I should like the service which the troops in Scotland seem to be employed about, hunting down the poor wretches of Covenanters."

"A soldier has no choice but to obey orders, you know," answered Mr. Morley. "And I can tell you, Mrs. Dolly, these same Covenanters are not such harmless sheep as you seem to suppose."

"But old men and old women and young lads, Mr. Morley—"

"War is a rough trade, Mrs. Dolly. But perhaps I may have the luck to get a command in one of the regiments under the Prince of Orange," said he. And then, lowering his voice as he saw my lady busy with a knot in her netting: "I would not willingly fall in your good opinion, fair lady."

Certainly he has a pleasant way with him. Even my lady feels it, and is more civil to him than to any one. But I don't think Mrs. Williams likes him. I don't see why not, I am sure.

February 6.       

The king died to-day at noon, without a struggle, they say. Nothing is seen in the streets but tears and sad faces. His easy, familiar ways and kind manners made him beloved even by those who could not approve his conduct. And, besides, people are afraid of what is to come. It is said the king once said to his brother, "I am safe from assassination while you live, James, for no one would kill me to make you king." His present Majesty being an avowed papist puts people upon grave thoughts of what is like to come. But I trust all will be well.

February 7.       

A general mourning is ordered, as if for a father, and my lady is in a great strait what to do about it. Ursula Robertson came in with her father, to bring us the news, and was presently followed by her servant, Mr. Andrews, and Mr. Morley.

"Of course you will put on mourning directly, sister," says Mr. Robertson, who seemed really to have got his wits together for once. Generally he is like an owl in daylight, when he is out of his counting-house.

"Yes," added Ursula: "you live so near Whitehall, the omission will be sure to be noticed. I think we Presbyterians ought to be specially careful about it: we are like to have hard times enough anyhow."

"Nay, I trust not," said Mr. Andrews. "'Tis said by some that the king is in favor of universal toleration of all religions."

Mr. Morley laughed. "'Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,'" said he. "The king is the king, but—I have seen him in Scotland."

"Do let us have a chance to talk a little about matters of importance," said my lady peevishly. "It seems to me that young folks take all the talk to themselves nowadays.—About this business of mourning, brother Robertson. Do you think it will be needful to buy new goods? You know I left off my weeds only two years ago, and Dolly must have the black she wore for her mother. Will not that do?"

"I should say not, I should say not," answered Mr. Robertson. "I should say that with a person of your known wealth, sister Corbet, it would certainly draw down unpleasant remarks."

"I cannot wear my black gowns at all," said I, rather maliciously I am afraid. "They are both outworn and outgrown. And you know, my lady, you sold most part of your weeds to poor Mrs. Anscomb, when she lost her husband."

"Hold your tongue, Mistress Malapert! Who asked your opinion?" said my lady, giving me a vengeful glance.

And indeed it was spiteful in me, but I so seldom have a chance to get amends of her.

"Oh, yes, I should say it was needful for you to provide black for yourself and all your household!" said Mr. Robertson. "I will send you some pieces of serge and bombazine to choose from."

My lady sighed and groaned over the expense, but finally gave in. I suppose we shall all be pinched in our diet to pay for the same. Happily Mrs. Williams hath charge of the keys at present.

By and by Mr. Morley made her a present of some cakes of chocolate, which put her into a somewhat better humor. As he was going away, he put a little parcel into my hand, slyly whispering at the same time, "Sweets to the sweet, fair lady."

When I had a chance to open it, I found a pretty gilded glass full of colored and perfumed comfits, and a little book of poetry by Mr. Dryden. I hope Ursula did not see him give it to me, and yet I fear she did.

Am I growing sly? I fear so. It is the natural consequence of living with a person one is in dread of. When I lived with Mrs. Price and dear mother, I had the name of being frank and open as the day, and I think I deserved it. But what can I do, placed as I am?

February 15.       

The king was buried last night, without any pomp at all, very obscurely even for a private gentleman, in the vault under Henry Seventh's chapel at Westminster. Many remarks made about the matter. But it will make little difference to him, poor gentleman!

February 18.       

The Robertsons are in great trouble. Mr. Andrews is taken with a fever, and not likely to recover. I went to see Ursula to-day, and found her crying in her chamber, with all her fine wedding-clothes spread out upon the bed. I felt very sorry for her.

"Only think, Dolly, I was to have been wedded this very day!" said she, sobbing.

"Perhaps Mr. Andrews may get better," I said.

"No, the doctor says there is no hope at all."

"Have you seen him?" I ventured to ask.

She stared at me in such amazement that she actually forgot to cry.

"Why no, of course not!" said she. "I might take the fever and die, or be disfigured for life. And besides," she added, crying again, "I could not endure to witness his pain. I am like his late blessed Majesty in that: I can't endure to see people suffer."

"And like him in another thing, that you don't care how they suffer, so you don't see them," I thought.

But she went on bemoaning herself, and mixing up her grief for poor, dear Mr. Andrews, with lamentations for her finery which would all be wasted, all be old-fashioned before she could wear it, till I grew weary, and said rather unfeelingly I am afraid,—

"Oh, perhaps not! Maybe you will get a new admirer before that time."

"You mean Mr. Morley?" said she, looking at me curiously, but not with the resentment most girls would have shown.

"No, I did not mean any one in particular," I answered, feeling my face flush, I don't know why.

"I don't suppose I am a great enough fortune for Mr. Morley," said she, "though I shall have four or five thousand pounds to my portion, too. He says he must needs marry rich: so you see you have no chance, Dolly, unless your mistress dies and leaves you some money."

"And that will be when the sky falls," said I; thinking to myself, "Certainly she will do no such thing if you can help it."

Just then good Mrs. Pendergast came in, to say that Mr. Andrews was much worse, that he could not last the day out, and most earnestly desired to bid farewell to his mistress. Whereupon Ursula began to scream and cry, and presently went into a fit, so we had all we could do to hold her. When she was a little better, I took my leave, as much disgusted as ever I was in my life. The heartless creature! I should think she would have counted every minute lost that she did not spend at his bedside. If it were Mr. Morley—But what am I saying?

February 21.       

Poor Mr. Andrews is dead and buried.

March 4.       

Being Ash Wednesday, my lady had a better dinner than ordinary.

March 6.       

My Lady Clarenham, who I thought had forgotten all about me, did really give a visit to my lady. She came in her coach, with her servants in livery, and entered the room leaning on the arm of the same young gentleman I saw with her in church, and whom she presented to my lady as Mr. Studley.

"Mr. Studley is a far away kinsman of mine own, who is so kind as to undertake the government of my family for me," said she.

"He is but young for such an office," said my mistress, not unkindly. She is always more civil to men than to women.

Lady Clarenham chatted awhile in an easy, pleasant, and yet somewhat serious manner. Mr. Studley was mostly silent, except when his lady appealed to him. He is not to say handsome, and yet there is something pleasing in his bright gray eyes, and firm, well-cut mouth. But he is rather small and slight, and did look like a lad by the side of Mr. Morley, who sauntered in, as he does pretty often nowadays. Yet he showed that he could hold his own, too. My Lady Clarenham was speaking of some new book which she had not read, but had heard much commended, and asked Mr. Morley if he had read it.

"Not I, madam," he answered, laughing. "Such reading is not in my way. I would as soon think of reading the Epistle to the Ephesians."

"You might perhaps find something of interest in the Epistle to the Ephesians, if you understood it," observed Mr. Studley, whereupon Mr. Morley turned upon him in what I must say was a somewhat overbearing manner.

"I would have you know, sir, that I am able to read the Epistle to the Ephesians in the original Greek!"

"I do not dispute it, sir," answered Mr. Studley, smiling. "I might read Mr. Boyle's late treatise on the higher mathematics in the original English, but I should hardly be much the wiser without some previous preparation."

Mr. Morley frowned for a moment, and then laughed good-naturedly.

"Well said, man; you have given me back mine own fairly enough. I see you have plenty of fire, for all you look so demure. But tell me, what think you of this last news from the Continent? King Louis carries matters with a high hand, does he not?"

And so the two fell into friendly conversation. I do like any one who can take a retort pleasantly.

My Lady Clarenham talked awhile on various matters. And then, turning to me, she asked me about my family. I told her that I knew not much about it; that my mother's marriage had displeased her own family; and though I knew she had a married sister living somewhere near Exeter, I had no acquaintance with her.

"Methinks I should know her! I know most of our west country gentry, by name, at least," said Lady Clarenham. "What is your uncle's name?"

"I don't know, madam," I answered.

"I suspect it is Sir Robert Fullham," said Mr. Studley. "I know him by sight. He is a gentleman reputed wealthy, and much respected. He hath daughters, but I think no son."

"And do you know my cousins, sir?" I ventured to ask.

"Only by sight," he answered. "They are fine young ladies, and, as I understand, much sought after in the gay society of Exeter. I have lived so much abroad that I hardly know our own neighborhood."

"You have served?" asked Mr. Morley.

"Not so, sir, but my father, wishing to have me learn the French and Italian tongues perfectly, sent me abroad at an early age. I sojourned in the family of a French Protestant minister, and found the life so much to my taste that I staid, perhaps, longer than I ought."

"This same Protestant minister had daughters, I warrant," said my mistress.

Mr. Studley smiled. I don't think I ever saw any eyes flash like his.

"One daughter, about forty years old, and scarred with small-pox," said he.

"What, then, was the attraction?" asked Mr. Morley.

"Even that which makes birds of a feather flock together," answered Mr. Studley. "You know Cicero says it is a great bond of union to think the same things concerning the republic, and the rule holds regarding even more important matters."

"You are, then, a Presbyterian, like myself?" said my mistress.

"No, madam, I am an unworthy member of the Church of England. And yet I could find a sympathizing friend in this Huguenot pastor. I learned more of him than in all my life before."

"Your Protestant friends in France are like to fare badly, since the revocation of the Edict of Nantes," said Mr. Morley. "That was something of a safeguard to them."

"More in name than in fact," said Mr. Studley. "It seems as though they could hardly be worse off, and yet I suppose they may be."

"Mr. Evelyn was telling me a sad story of the cruelties practised toward the French Protestants," observed Lady Clarenham. "He says he had it from a sure hand. It is strange that nothing about it hath appeared in the 'Gazette.'"

"Not so very strange, when you consider who hath the ordering of these matters," said Mr. Morley. "Has your ladyship heard who is to be the new chief justice? Even no other than Mr. Jeffreys."

"Impossible! That wretch!" said my lady, with some heat.

"'Tis said so by the best authorities."

"Heaven help us! Where are we drifting to?" said my Lady Clarenham.

And then, catching (or so I fancied) a warning glance from Mr. Studley, she changed the conversation by asking my mistress to allow me to come and give her a visit. Lady Corbet was so far wrought upon by her visitor's kindness that she promised to consider the matter. But I don't build at all upon it.

March 10.       

'Tis really true that Mr. Jeffreys is made chief justice. Mr. Baxter brought us the news. He augurs ill from the appointment of such a man, and no wonder. Mr. Morley says the aspect of the court is greatly changed: all is decent and sober, at least outwardly; and the old throng of gamesters, singers, buffoons, and the like, find no entertainment any more at Whitehall. Mr. Morley still keeps his place; but he has asked, and had the promise of, a troop of horse. He says his Majesty commended his desire of active service, and will place him under his old commander, Col. Kirke.

I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. I am pleased with his good fortune, of course, but I shall miss him if he goes, and I have so few pleasures. I said something about his going away to Mrs. Williams.

"I am glad on't with all my heart," said she.

"You do not like him, and yet he is very good-natured and pleasing."

"Too pleasing," she answered. "The truth is not in him. See you not, my child, how careless he is in his statements, how he exaggerates? He can scarce repeat a story from a book as it is, without making some addition of his own. I would he had staid among the Moors, before he ever came here, with his fine speeches, to turn silly heads."

"He has not turned mine, if that is what you mean," said I, feeling my cheeks burn.

"I am not so sure of that," said she; "I would I were. My dear Dolly, let me beg you to be careful in this matter. Mr. Morley is not the man to make you happy, even if he thought seriously of marrying you, which I greatly doubt, for I think him altogether mercenary. And he may compromise you seriously before you are aware. Be not angry, now, but tell me, have you not met him more than once in your morning walks?"

"It was only an accident, if I did," I answered. "You don't think I would go out purposely to meet a man in secret, Mrs. Williams? What do you take me for?"

"For an innocent child, who knows naught of the ways of the world, and should therefore be content to be guided, my dear," said Mrs. Williams. "I think no ill of you, Dolly, but I must needs warn you. A young maid's fair fame is like the ermine, which, they say, dies of a stain on its white fur. Suppose my lady should learn from some one that you had met Mr. Morley in the park?"

"Suppose you go and tell her," said I, too angry to keep any measure in my words. "Then she might turn me out, and you could have her old gowns all to yourself."

And with that I ran away to my own room to have a good cry. I am ashamed of myself already for answering so my good old friend,—the only friend I have in the world almost, and who hath never showed me aught but kindness. I believe she is right, too, so far as these meetings are concerned. And I am resolved there shall be no more of them, though it breaks my heart.

March 12.       

I have made it up with Mrs. Williams, and asked her pardon, and have promised her to give Mr. Morley no more meetings. I must say she was very kind and motherly. She told me what I did never know before, that she had once had a daughter, who died about my age, and says she, "I verily believe of a broken heart, though the doctors called it a consumption."

And then she told me how the poor thing had been led by a fine gentleman to think he meant to marry her, though he had nothing in his mind but the amusement of an idle hour.

"God mercifully preserved her from sin and shame, and then more mercifully still, as I now think, took her home to himself," said she, weeping. And I wept with her.

March 24.       

The king and queen crowned yesterday. Much murmuring at the omission of the procession; the king, it seems, choosing rather to spend the money on jewels for his wife. The coronation rites very much shortened, there being no communion. I wonder how he, being a Papist, would consent to be crowned by a heretic archbishop, whose orders he must regard as altogether void and schismatical; and to join in worship, which, according to his notions, must be stark blasphemy.

The Papists are everywhere raising their heads. Mass is publicly said at Whitehall and other places. On Easter Day there was a grand celebration, at which many great lords attended, but the Lords Ormond and Halifax remained in the ante-chamber.

We had all this great news and much more from Mr. Morley, who gave us a visit with Ursula Robertson and her father. He has not been here before in some days, but from things that came out, it seems he hath been visiting Ursula more than once, and even contrived that she should have a peep at the king and queen yesterday.

"But you could not go in your mourning," said I; for she wears the deepest sables, like a young widow.

"I left them off for the nonce," said she. "There was no harm in that."

"No harm, perhaps, but I should not have done it," I answered.

"Of course you wouldn't," she answered mockingly. "We all know you are the pattern of propriety and prudence and all the rest. Wait till you are tried, that is all."

"I am not like to be tried in any such way," I answered.

At that moment my lady called Ursula to her side to take out a knot in her netting, and Mr. Morley whispered in my ear,—

"If I am killed in the wars, Mrs. Dolly, won't you wear mourning for me?"

"We shall see when the time comes," I answered lightly, though my heart was beating so it almost choked me. "You have not gone to the wars yet."

"But I am like to go at any time, if this mad Duke of Monmouth gives us the trouble that people think is likely. And it would be a comfort to me, lying on the bloody battle-field awaiting death, to think that my Dolly's bright eyes would weep for me."

"You ought to be thinking of better things," I rejoined.

And then my lady interrupted me, by asking some question about the standing army that men say is to be formed.

"'Tis but a piece of rumor as yet, madam," answered Mr. Morley. "I do not think any steps have been taken in regard to it. I can only say, I hope with all my heart it is true. The defence of this nation should not be intrusted to country squires, and to rustics and cobblers who hardly know their right hand from their left."

"And what will Parliament say to that, think you? A standing army hath ever been a bugbear, you know."

"I believe the incoming Parliament is not like to offer much resistance to the king's will in that or any other matter," answered Mr. Morley. "I may say this much is quite true, that an army is to be formed, and I am going down to Scotland on some business concerning it to-morrow: so I shall not see you again in some time."

My heart sank at these words. I have not seen much of Mr. Morley lately, but then I knew he was in town, and might drop in at any minute. And to think of his going away so far, and to that barbarous and rebellious country. I was ashamed of my emotion, however, and made a great effort to restrain myself, especially as I saw Ursula looking at me.

As we parted, Air. Morley took an opportunity to whisper to me,—

"Will you not be in the park to-morrow morning, Dolly? It will be the last time, mayhap, that we shall ever meet."

I assented almost without thinking, and now I almost wish I had not. I promised Mrs. Williams I would never do so again, and dear mother ever taught me that a promise was most sacred. I am sure, too, mother would say Mrs. Williams was right. Oh, dear, never was poor girl so hard bestead! If only my dear mother had lived, or Mr. Harpe had not cheated us so! I can't help it. It is not my fault if I can't be good. Nobody could be open and true with such a mistress as I have. And I must see Mr. Morley once more. It will only be for once, and then I will live like a nun.

April 3.       

But I did not see him, after all. My lady must needs have a fit of cramps about four in the morning. I believe in my soul it was but a fit of indigestion, caused by eating too much lobster for her supper, but it was bad enough to call up the whole household, and keep us all busy for three or four hours. She really was very ill, and I believe both Mrs. Williams and the doctor were very much alarmed. However, she got better toward night, but too late to do me any good.

Ursula and her father came to see her in the evening, and Ursula sat with me in the ante-chamber while her father went in to see his sister-in-law.

"Mr. Morley is gone," said she, after we had talked a little about indifferent matters.

"So I suppose," said I coolly. Whatever I felt, I was not going to betray myself to her.

"Are you not sorry?" she asked me.

"Rather," I said. "He was a pleasant gentleman, and was always coming in with some bit of news. And beside, my lady liked him, and he kept her in a good humor, which was so much clear gain to me. Yes, on the whole, I am very sorry he has gone."

"Would not you be sorry if he did not come back?" she asked.

"Why, of course I should. Why should I want the poor man to be killed? But, you know, he may stay away for other reasons," I returned. "He may find some fair Scottish lassie with a good fortune to her back, and marry her."

Ursula shut her lips tight, and shook her head. "I don't believe it," said she. "Heiresses are not so plenty north of the Tweed. And besides—But it boots not talking. Dolly, do you know whether my aunt has made her will?"

"I don't think she has," I answered. "She talks about it sometimes, and I know Mrs. Williams has urged her to settle her estate, but, when it comes to the point, she always says there is time enough."

"She was very ill this morning, was she not?"

"Yes, very. We thought she would die, for a while."

"And then she must leave all her money that she worships so, behind her," said Ursula in a musing tone. "Dolly, it is a hard thing to die, isn't it?"

"I don't know; I never tried it," said I flippantly enough, for I was in a mood to say any thing.

I thought afterward that it was a wicked and presumptuous thing to say. Of course, it must depend on what one's life has been. Poor little Emma did not find it hard when the time came, nor my mother. They had no fear at all,—I suppose because they were so religious,—and I don't believe Mr. Baxter fears death. But my lady is very religious, too, and yet she is dreadfully afraid of death. I do believe she thought herself in danger, for she has been wonderfully kind to all of us since her illness. And the day before yesterday, when my Lady Clarenham came to ask for a little visit from me, she graciously gave me leave for three days. I never was more surprised in my life. I was glad of any change, for this house has become an intolerable prison for me.