BOOK II.

_August 1, 1685._

LITTLE did I think, when I closed the last book, that the new one would

open under such changed circumstances. I had been having a pretty hard

time for some days. Mrs. Williams was ill for a week, and not able to

get out of bed: so I had the whole care of my mistress; and a handful

she was, to be sure, and as cross as two sticks. She who takes to her

bed on the smallest ailment, and will have the whole house running if

her little finger aches, was quite sure there was nothing the matter

with Mrs. Williams, and that she could get up if she only thought so.

Then she would veer round to the other extreme: Mrs. Williams had an

infectious fever, even the plague; she would die in the house, and give

us all the infection, and there would be the funeral.

In vain the doctor assured her it was only a severe cold, which would

get well with nursing. If that was all, why need Williams lie in bed?

"She" had had plenty of colds, and nobody thought any thing of them,

but she was a poor, forsaken creature that nobody cared for. And then

the expense: she should die in an almshouse, she knew she should.

"Then you will be happier than a great many of your persuasion, madam,"

said the doctor. "Better die in an almshouse than in jail or on the

scaffold, as so many are doing just now."

My lady was silent at this, and I saw her glance at me.

"I should not think such severity would help to make his Majesty

popular," observed Mr. Andrews, who had come in with Bab to give us a

call.

"It does not," said the doctor, who is much about the court, and who

is, in fact, one of those who attended his late Majesty in his last

illness. "But I do not think the king cares to be liked as his brother

did; he would rather be feared. I dread, sir, we shall see great

troubles and changes before many years are past."

"There, don't talk about it," said my lady hastily: "it is not safe."

And she began to ask Mr. Andrews about the credit of somebody in the

city who owes her money. But the fright did her good, and she behaved

much better afterward.

I had one comfort in a letter from Mr. Morley, sent me by a private

hand. It was kindly writ, as usual, but says nothing of public affairs.

One thing I am resolved on: I will never give him another private

meeting.

Well, Mrs. Williams was about again, and things had fallen into their

usual course. I had been out to do an errand for my mistress, and she

had given me leave to make Bab Andrews a little visit. Bab was not at

home, and I was turning from the door, when I met Mary Mathews.

"You are to come home directly, Mrs. Dolly," said she, quite breathless

with her haste. "My lady sent me for you, and desires you will make no

delay."

"Why, what now?" said I. "Hath my lady taken a fit again?"

"Not so, but there is a lady come to see you," said Mary. "She is

sitting in the withdrawing-room with mistress."

"In the withdrawing-room!" I repeated, in wonder, knowing that my lady

never enters that room if she can help it. "Did you see the lady? Is it

my Lady Clarenham?"

"The lady who came to see you before? No, but a much handsomer lady,

and very richly dressed. I think my mistress called her Lady Fullham,

but I am not sure."

"Fullham? I have heard that name somewhere, but I can't tell where,"

said I.

But I had not much time to speculate thereon, for we were already at

the house. I made myself neat, taking very little time about it, for I

was running over with curiosity.

As I entered the room, I found myself face to face with a handsome

lady, a little past the prime of life, very richly dressed, but in a

sober, matronly fashion. There was something oddly familiar in her

face, too.

"This is Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, madam," said my mistress, taking me by

the hand to present me, as if I had been a daughter of her own, a thing

she never did before. "Dolly, this lady is Lady Fullham, who has come

to see you on an important matter."

I can't tell how many or what wild notions darted through my mind. The

chief was the wonder whether this lady were not some friend or relation

of Mr. Morley's to whom he had recommended me, as I remember he once

spoke of doing. I was soon undeceived, and in a surprising way.

"Come hither, and speak to me, my child," said the lady, after she had,

as it seemed to me, looked me all over in a moment with her keen dark

eyes. "I am your mother's own sister and your aunt."

The room did seem to turn round with me at these words. My mother never

spoke of her own family, who were bitterly opposed to her marrying a

soldier and a poor man. She did say on her death-bed, "Dolly, you were

named for your aunt, my only sister. If you ever have a chance, make

friends with her, and give my love to her. I am sorry now that I have

never written to her, though I shall never regret my marriage."

I recovered myself as quickly as I could, curtsied deeply, and received

my new aunt's kiss, but in silence, for I literally could not speak.

"You did not know you had such a relation, I suppose," said my aunt.

"No, madam—yes, madam," I faltered, like a fool. And then, making a

great effort, "My mother told me on her death-bed that I was named for

you. It was almost the last word she said."

"And why did not you or your guardians let me know, child?" she asked,

rather sharply. And then, more gently, "But I dare say you did not

know where to write. My father forbade my holding any intercourse with

my poor, unhappy sister, and perhaps we obeyed him too literally, and

after I had daughters of mine own—However, that does not matter now."

"I will leave you to yourselves for a while," said my lady, rising.

I gave her my arm to her own room, and returned to my new aunt, whom I

found viewing the pictures and ornaments with a critical eye.

"This room is very handsomely furnished, though a little out of date,"

said she. "I should hardly have expected such taste in a city woman, as

I understand Lady Corbet to have been before her last husband married

her."

I told her the room had been fitted up by Lady Jemima, my cousin's

first wife, and was, I believed, just as she left it.

"Oh, that accounts for it!" said she. "Lady Jemima was of an excellent

old family."

(I wonder does being of an old family give one an infallible taste. I

suppose, as Mr. Pendergast says, one family is really about as old as

another.)

Then my aunt had me sit down by her, and began to catechise me rather

sharply, but not unkindly, about my mother and her affairs. She was

visibly touched when I told her of my mother's troubles and death. And,

when I could not forbear weeping, she called me "poor child," and gave

me her own smelling-bottle.

"Well, well, I would I had known!" said she. "I would never have left

her to die among strangers. But my first husband hated London, and

would never come hither; and Sir Robert is not much better." Then she

began to ask me about my education, and I answered her frankly. Finally

she asked if my lady was kind to me.

"Please excuse me from answering that question, madam," said I. "My

mistress gave me a home when I had nowhere to go, and it would ill

become me to accuse her."

My aunt looked displeased for a moment, and then her brow cleared.

"You are right, child, and your words show a ladylike spirit. One can

see you are of gentle blood. Now go and ask Lady Corbet if she will

give me the favor of an interview to-morrow. I will not ask to see her

again to-day, as she seems but feeble; and, beside, I want a little

time to consider."

I went up to my mistress, who fixed ten of the clock for receiving my

aunt. (How strange it seems to write the word!) I told my aunt, who

said she would come at that hour.

"By the way, child, I hope you are not a Presbyterian, as I hear these

people are," said she, as she was going away.

"No, madam," I answered; "I was brought up in the Church of England."

"That is well," said she. "They are a pestilent set of traitors, as the

late unhappy outbreak hath shown."

I could not quite stand this. "Not all, madam," said I. "I have not

heard a single Presbyterian speak of the late rebellion but with regret

and abhorrence."

"Don't answer me back, child," said my aunt sharply. "Your mother

should have taught you better than that. There, I am not angry, but

don't do it again."

She kissed me, and I attended her to the door. She had a fine coach and

two men. I think she must be very rich. How odd if she should take a

fancy to adopt me! But that is not likely, as she tells me she hath two

daughters of her own.

_August 3._

But unlikely things do happen. Lady Fullham came again next day, and

was closeted with my mistress full two hours. I expected every moment

to be sent for, but no message came. And by and by, I saw my aunt drive

away. Every thing went on as usual till after dinner, when my lady

called me to her side, and bade me sit down.

"So I am to lose you, Dolly, it seems," said she. "This fine country

lady desires to adopt you into her own family, and to give you a home

and all the privileges of a daughter. And of course she has the best

right to you, as your mother's sister."

"Methinks her mother's sister was somewhat slow in asserting her

right," remarked Mrs. Williams, who was knitting, as usual, and with

that peculiar click of her needles which always indicates displeasure

with her.

"Hold your tongue, Williams," retorted my mistress. "Lady Fullham did

not know of her niece's existence."

"Then she might have known," said Mrs. Williams, who is not easily put

down. "She could have asked, I presume."

"Will you be quiet?" said my lady. "You see, Dolly, the doctor says I

must go to the Bath and stay several months, and that makes it needful

to shut up the house. I can't afford to keep two establishments, nor

could you stay here alone."

"There would be no need of that," said Mrs. Williams. "Mrs. Dolly could

go with us to the Bath. I am sure you will need her quite as much there

as here."

"Hold your tongue, Williams!" This is her regular retort, and Mrs.

Williams cares for it as much as for the sparrows' chirping outside.

"It would increase my expenses very greatly to carry Dolly with me, and

that is what I cannot afford. I am like to be driven to beggary as it

is, with all this journeying and expense."

Mrs. Williams's needles rattled like a soldier's equipments, and her

chin went up in the air with its own peculiar toss.

My lady continued,—

"Besides, my Lady Fullham, being own sister to Dolly's mother, has the

best right to her. She is wealthy, and can take her into society, and

give her many advantages."

"She 'can,'" said Mrs. Williams. "The question is, whether she 'will.'"

"She says she intends to place Dolly on the same footing as her own

daughters," returned my lady. "Those were her very words, 'On the same

footing as my own daughters, in every respect.'—What do you say to

that, chick?"

"My aunt is very kind," said I. "I must say that it is pleasant to me

to think that I have some relations. I have been so alone in the world

hitherto."

"Better kind strangers than strange kin," snapped Mrs. Williams.

"Perhaps Dolly thinks she has not found the kind strangers," said my

lady.

"Oh, yes! I have had a great deal of kindness from strangers," said I.

"Nobody ever had a better friend than Mrs. Williams has been to me."

And in something of my old impulsive fashion, I threw my arms round the

dear old woman's neck, and gave her a good hug, thereby causing great

damage to the knitting.

Mrs. Williams returned my kiss; and then, gathering up her work, she

left the room.

"Williams, where are you going? Come back," cried my lady.

But Mrs. Williams only said she would come back presently, and closed

the door after her. When she did come back, I saw that she had been

weeping.

"Well, now, if you have done with your playacting, you and Williams,

perhaps you will listen to sense," said my lady peevishly. "Lady

Fullham and I have settled it all between us. Dolly is to go to her on

Monday."

"That is very short notice, seeing that this is Friday," observed Mrs.

Williams. "Mrs. Dolly will have no time to get her clothes ready; and

she needs new under-linen, stays, and gloves, and what not."

"There you are quite mistaken," said my mistress triumphantly. "Lady

Fullham expressly said Dolly was to bring nothing with her but the most

necessary clothes. She preferred to provide every thing herself.—So,

you see, Dolly, you need not take the blue silk gown I gave you, nor

the cloth mantle. They will do for some one else, if ever I have

another in your place, which I doubt."

"But, my lady, I have nothing else to wear,—not a decent thing," I

faltered, somewhat aghast.

"To be sure you have not," said Mrs. Williams decidedly. "I presume the

lady did not want her niece to come to her like a beggar-wench from

the Bridewell; nor would you, my lady, like to be thought so mean and

stingy as to send her out in that guise. You would not like to have

this fine lady telling every one of her acquaintance that Lady Corbet

was too mean to give her gentlewoman decent clothes."

Now, if there be one thing that my lady cares more for than for her

money, it is what people say about her.

"Of course not, of course not. I am only telling you what the lady

said. Of course, Dolly will take with her what clothes she has already.

All I mean is, that she need not wait to buy any more.—There, go away

now, Dolly, and let me have a rest. You can be putting your things in

order, if they need it."

But they do not need it. Thanks to my dear mother's lessons, followed

up by Mrs. Williams's, I have the fixed habit of mending my clothes as

they want it. I almost wish I had something to do to pass away the time.

To think that, after almost three years of slavery,—waiting on my

lady's whims, and wearing out my eyes and fingers in everlasting

seaming and stitching, and my throat in reading stupid books of

divinity that I could never make head nor tail of,—after all, I am

really to be a young lady, and take my place as such in my aunt's

family.

I hope I shall be able to content her. She seems like one who would

be mighty particular. I can see that she thinks a great deal of birth

and family. Well, mine ought to be good enough to suit her, one would

think. My mother was her own sister, and my father was related not

distantly, though I don't know just how, to the old Corbet family in

Devonshire and Cornwall. Sir Charles told me about it once,—that is, he

began to tell me, but my lady, who never could endure to have him speak

to me, came down on us like a dragon. Alas! Poor man. He was very good

to me. I have been looking at his last gift, which I always wear about

my neck. It is egg-shaped, about as large as a small pigeon's egg, and

there is something inside which rattles a little. I cannot see any way

to open it, but then I would not do so if I could,—at least I think not.

There is one thought that troubles me a good deal. How shall I ever see

or hear from Mr. Morley? He can come to visit my lady, and I can at

least see him and hear him talk, and now and then get a few words to

myself. As to meeting him in the park again, I have solemnly resolved

not to do that. But he is not in London, nor like to be for a long

time, and then his regiment is stationed in the west. My uncle and aunt

live not very far from Exeter, and perchance we may meet.

But my aunt is not going down to the west at present. She has taken

a furnished house, and means to remain at least till some time in

September, that her daughters may have lessons in drawing and music.

I wonder if I shall have them as well. I do love music dearly, but I

have not touched an instrument since I came to this house. There is

a harpsichord down-stairs, but it is locked and the key lost. Beside

that, my mistress hates music.

I can't pretend to say that I am sorry to leave "her." She has never

been kind to me, except when she was afraid of me; and she is one

of those people who delight to wreak their own discomforts on other

people. So sure as money hath not come in when she expected it, or

her supper hath disagreed with her, or she hath had an argument with

Mr. Pendergast about giving something (and he is not afraid of her,

whoever else is), just so surely my ears and shoulders have had to pay

the piper. And one never can tell when she will break out. It is like

living with some treacherous wild animal. And I don't think I owe her

any debt of gratitude for my board and clothes, either. Mrs. Williams

herself told my mistress that I earned all I had, and more too; and she

is one who never exaggerates, as I know I do sometimes.

I am sorry to leave Mrs. Williams. A better woman never lived or

breathed, as I believe I have said two or three times before, but I

don't care. She is desperately strict in her notions, and thinks every

thing in the shape of amusement is wrong, except it may be a walk now

and then, or some kind of fanciful knitting. She would not even have

psalms sung in church.

And when Mr. Pendergast asked her how she got along with King David's

singers and instruments, she said tartly, "That was under the old

dispensation and not any rule for Christians."

Then he fell upon her with St. James, his words, "Is any merry? Let him

sing psalms."

But she answered more sharply still, that she read her Bible by the

light within, and that these words had a spiritual significance.

"But suppose my inward illumination shows me something quite different

from yours, what then?" asked Mr. Pendergast, whereat she was silent.

They are always very good friends, despite their arguments. I don't

suppose I shall ever see any of them again, and that I do regret. I

wonder whether my aunt will let me visit Bab Andrews. I shall be sorry

if she does not, for I love her dearly. I must try to see her to-morrow.

_August 10._

I have been an inmate of my aunt's family a week, and this is the

very first minute I have had to write. Somehow we never seem to have

any time to ourselves. Even for our hours of retirement and devotion,

which are strictly set apart every day, my aunt appoints our tasks of

reading; and we must give her an account of what we have read. However,

she does leave us alone at such times; and, as I am a rapid reader and

have a good memory, I hope I may now and then have a few minutes.

I was all ready on Monday morning when my aunt's carriage came for me;

and it was with a strange feeling of acting in a dream that I took my

seat in it, beside a somewhat sharp-visaged person who I learned was

my cousins' waiting-woman. I was no sooner seated beside her than she

began to arrange my kerchief and bodice, telling me that I was not

dressed snug enough.

"But we shall soon change all that," said she. "Is your health pretty

good, Mrs. Dorothy? You are rather pale."

I told her that it was my natural complexion, that I had never been ill

more than two or three times in my life, and then not seriously.

"Are not my cousins healthy?" I ventured to ask.

"Mrs. Betty is well, Mrs. Margaret is rather delicate," was the reply.

I asked how old they were, and she told me that Margaret was eighteen

and Betty sixteen.

"Then I am just between them, for I am seventeen," said I.

At that moment I saw Bab Andrews coming out at her father's door, and

nodded to her.

"You must never do that when my mistress sees you," was the comment my

companion made. "She would be very angry."

"But why?" I asked. "Mr. Andrews is a very wealthy and good man, and

his daughter is lovely. Did you not think her nice looking?"

"Yes, she hath a nice face and air," said Mrs. Sharpless. (Such was

the waiting-woman's name, she told me.) "But if she were an angel from

heaven, it would make no difference. My mistress will have her young

people make no friends out of her own circle."

I felt rather dashed at this, and I dare say I showed it. Mrs.

Sharpless turned to me, and put her hand on my arm.

"Mrs. Dorothy, though it is not my place perhaps, I am going to give

you a bit of advice," said she impressively. "You are but a young

thing, and are coming into a new place. Now, mind what I say. If you

would get on smoothly and comfortably, you must make up your mind to

have no will of your own, but to be governed by my mistress your aunt

in all things. 'Tis the only way."

I told her I hoped I knew my duty too well not to be submissive to my

aunt who was so kind as to adopt me.

"Why, aye, you seem a towardly young lady, and well-bred. And I am glad

your cousins will have a companion of their own age, poor things! Well,

here we are."

It was with no little trepidation that I found myself ushered into my

aunt's presence. She was sitting in her own parlor, surrounded by heaps

of silk and linen, laces and other things of the sort; and a man was

in attendance with more bundles still. My aunt received me kindly, and

kissed my cheek.

"You may carry Mrs. Dorothy to her cousins' room, and tell them from

me they may have a holiday till dinner to get acquainted with their

cousin. And do you unpack her mail, and lay out her things upon the

bed, that I may look them over. We must put her wardrobe in hand

directly, that she may be decent to go out with me."

Mrs. Sharpless curtsied, and led me up-stairs, and along a passage

to a green door covered with cloth. This she opened, knocking first,

and ushered me into a somewhat bare room, where two young ladies were

sitting,—one at her book, the other at the harpsichord where she was

making terrible work of her scales. They both looked round as we

entered, but neither stirred till Mrs. Sharpless said,—

"Mrs. Margaret and Mrs. Betty, this is your cousin Mrs. Dorothy Corbet,

with whom your mother desires you to become acquainted; and to that end

she gives you a holiday till dinner-time.—I will go and lay out your

things, Mrs. Dorothy, and then come and show you your bedroom."

Margaret and Betty came forward and kissed me, rather coolly I thought;

and there was a minute or two of awkward silence, which Betty broke by

asking in a business-like way,—

"Well, why don't you become acquainted, since that is the order?"

"Betty!" said Margaret warningly.

"Because I don't know how," said I, laughing in spite of myself. "At

school, when new girls came in, we used to get acquainted by asking

their names and histories, but I dare say you know all that."

"Oh, yes, my mother was pleased to inform us that we had a new cousin

who would share our studies and pleasures!" Betty laid an emphasis on

this last word, which was almost bitter I thought. "And I suppose she

told you all about us."

"Not very much," I answered. "Mrs. Sharpless told me that Margaret was

the elder, and that she was not very strong."

"Are you?" asked Betty. I told her yes.

"So much the better for you," said she shortly, and then she began to

ask me about my accomplishments. Could I sing? Could I play? I told her

I could do both.

"I am glad on't; that is, if you play well," said Betty. "Meg loves

music, and she will have something to listen to beside my horrible

strumming."

"And do you play?" I asked, turning to Margaret, who, in as careless an

attitude as her stiff chair would permit, was looking at us with soft,

wistful, dark eyes, which reminded me somehow of Bab Andrews's dog.

"Yes, but not very well," said she. "But I am glad you can play, cousin

Dorothy. Try something now."

"I am not sure I can remember any thing," said I. "I have not touched a

harpsichord in three years."

However, I did make out to play one of my old lessons, and then I

sang a song out of one of Mr. Shakspeare's plays, "Hark! The lark at

heaven's gate sings."

It was always a favorite of mine, and I was so glad to sing and play

once more, that I did my very best. Margaret sprang up from her chair

and came and stood by me. As I ceased and looked up, I saw that her

color was deepened, and there were tears in her bright, soft eyes.

Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Sharpless came and called me. But,

as I rose from the music-stool, Betty caught my hand, and gave it a

squeeze.

"You have made Meg happy," said she. "I shall love you if you can do

that."

"And I am sure I shall love you," I began to say.

But Mrs. Sharpless hurried me away, saying that my aunt was waiting.

My heart sank fathoms deep as I suddenly remembered my precious

writing-books and thought of their meeting my aunt's eye. When I

entered the room which was to be mine, however, I saw no trace of them

and my aunt was as kind as ever.

"I have been looking over your things, Dorothy," said she, "and I am

pleased with the order in which you have kept them. It shows that you

are neat, and clever with your needle. I see you have a Bible and

Prayer-Book: that is well. But why are you so pleased?"

For I had caught up the Prayer-Book with a little cry of joy. It was

my dear mother's gift, which my mistress had taken away from me when

I first went to live with her. I explained the matter to my aunt. She

nodded.

"Just what one would expect such a person to do," was her comment.

Now, I don't believe my mistress's religion had the least thing to do

with her taking away my Prayer-Book. I don't believe Mr. Pendergast

would have done it, or poor dear Mr. Baxter, though he did use to send

me such dreary, uncomfortable books to read. It was just a piece of my

lady's spite, like her forbidding Mrs. Williams to knit, because it

gave her the fidgets to see and hear the needles. Marry, she soon grew

tired of that. But I had learned already not to argue with my aunt.

"But you must have a new book to carry to church," said she. "My

daughters attend church every morning at eight, and I shall expect you

to go with them. Is this old-fashioned silk your best dress?"

"Yes, madam."

"And who made it."

I told her I had made it myself out of an old one of my Lady Jem's.

"Well, well! It is neatly done and does you credit, but you must have

two or three new ones made in the fashion. I dare say your mistress did

not care much for that. But remember it is a duty we owe to the world,

to dress becomingly to our stations. There, now, you may go back to the

schoolroom, and Sharpless will arrange your drawers for you. She is

your cousins' attendant, and will be yours as well."

Mrs. Sharpless followed me into the passage with my handkerchief. As

she gave it into my hands, she said in a low tone,—

"Your copy-books are on the high shelf in your closet behind the books,

Mrs. Dolly. It is a good place for them, and you might as well leave

them there."

I nodded assent, well-pleased for the moment to think they had escaped

my aunt's eye. But, when I had a little time to think, I must say that

I was not pleased to think this waiting-woman should have my secret

in her hands. She seems a good woman, and very devoted to her young

ladies, especially to Meg; and it was kind of her to save me from being

disgraced with my aunt, and perhaps sent back on my mistress's hands.

Oh, dear, I almost wish at times that I had never seen Mr. Morley, and

yet!—But be as it may, there is no use in wishing things undone.

We dined at noon, as the fashion is now; and, being used to have my

meal an hour earlier, I was hungry enough. The table was beautifully

set out, and the dinner elegantly cooked and served. But I can't say I

enjoyed it very much. My aunt seemed to watch every motion and every

mouthful. It was,—

"Betty, where are your elbows?"

"Margaret, hold your fork more easily. There, now, you have dropped

it," as poor Meg, startled, let her fork fall with a great clatter.

"One would think you had lived in Wales or some other place where forks

have not yet come into fashion."

And so on, to the end of the dinner. I noticed that my cousins ate

very little, but, as for me, I made a good meal. After dinner, we were

dismissed to dress for going out with my aunt. Meg is about my height:

so I was arrayed in one of her dresses, which was almost too small for

me, slender as I am. But by dint of twitching my stay-laces so tight

that I could hardly breathe, Mrs. Sharpless got it on.

"Oh, dear, I can never breathe in this!" said I.

"You must get used to it," said Betty. "Straitjackets are the fashion

here, as well as in Bedlam. You ought to be used to strait-lacing,

Dorothy, living among Presbyterians so long."

"That is a different kind of lacing," I answered. "I have never been

used to dress tight. My mother and Mrs. Williams thought it very

unwholesome."

"And they are right. It is murderous," said Betty.

"Hush, Mrs. Betty, you must not speak so," said Mrs. Sharpless, but not

unkindly. "You don't think your mother would do any thing murderous, do

you?"

"She would not mean to," said Betty, and that was the end of the matter.

My aunt carried Betty and myself to the park in her fine coach, to take

the air among the great folks. But I don't think there were as many gay

equipages as used to be in the old king's time. My Lady Castlemain was

there, sulky and handsome, lolling back in her carriage, but I did not

see anybody take much notice of her. My aunt seemed to have many grand

acquaintances, and even exchanged a few words with the king himself. I

think he looks more gloomy than ever.

I was presented to the Countess of Sunderland, who had just stopped

to take up Mr. Evelyn. He recognized me in a moment, and kindly asked

after my health, and when I had heard from my friend. He also told me

that Mrs. Patty, my little school friend, had gone to live altogether

with her great-aunt. My aunt was talking to my Lady Sunderland, but

as soon as we separated, she turned and asked me, rather severely,

where I had met Mr. Evelyn, and who he was talking about. I told her

all about it. Whereat she remarked that Lady Clarenham was a woman of

good family, though her father had taken the wrong side in the late

troubles, and that every one respected Mr. Evelyn.

I must say I did not enjoy the drive. My stays hurt me so, I could

hardly breathe; and I am not enough used to the swinging motion of a

coach to like it even yet. Besides, the passing of the places where I

had been in other company did revive my grief, and make me feel more

than ever how hungry my heart was for the sight of the dear one.

I liked it better when we went to the shops, where my lady bought me

a new Prayer-Book and some other books of devotions and meditations,

and a beautiful sewing-equipage for my pocket, and some toilet matters

whereof I really did stand in need. Betty timidly asked if she might

buy a little flask of aromatic vinegar for Meg, saying that it was good

for her headaches.

"Yes, if you choose, though I think Meg's headaches are mostly of the

imagination," said my lady.

Betty's cheek flushed, and her lips were pressed more closely together,

but they relaxed a little when my aunt added kindly, "But I am pleased

to see you thoughtful for your sister, child. Here, you may take a

bottle of this distilled lavender, also: I think she likes it, does she

not?"

"Yes, madam," answered Betty, and her face grew softer than I had yet

seen it.

In the evening my lady went to the play, with her daughters. I was left

behind as having nothing to wear, and I was not sorry. I wanted to get

off my dress for one thing, and to quiet my head, which was all in a

whirl. Certainly it seemed to me the longest day of my life.

After I had practised my music an hour with great delight, I took my

work and sat down by the open window, for it was very warm. The house

at the back overlooks some fine gardens, so we have good air. I was

sorry when Mrs. Sharpless came in and ordered me away, saying I would

take cold. I think I would like to be a gypsy or a farmer's wife, and

so live in the open air.

It was ten o'clock when my cousins came up to their room. Margaret

looked very pale, I thought. They were no sooner inside the schoolroom,

than Betty flew at her sister, undid her dress, and unlaced her stays

so quickly that the silk laces fairly snapped. Margaret sank down in a

chair with a sigh of relief.

"Oh, how good that is!" said she. And then she put her arms round

Betty's neck, and her head on her shoulder, and wept hysterically. I

brought the flask of lavender-water, and bathed her head, and held

my hartshorn salts to her nose, but nothing did any good till Mrs.

Sharpless, who had come in, said in a voice of kind authority,—

"Come, come, Mrs. Margaret, this won't do at all! Your mother will hear

you."

If I had children, I would not like to be held up to them as a bugbear

or a bogy. But it had its effect in Margaret's case. She checked her

sobs with a great effort.

"I won't be so silly," said she, with a pitiful smile. "Dorothy will

think me a baby."

"Dorothy knows what it is to be tired and overdone," said I, as I

kissed her. "But you will feel better when you have rested."

Since then I have fallen into the ways of my aunt's household, and

my life goes on like clockwork. Rise at six and dress. Spend an hour

in our closets reading of some good book. Then to church to prayers.

Then home, to breakfast on bread and butter, and cold water, or very

weak broth. My aunt says beer spoils the shape and complexion. Then to

appear before my aunt in her dressing-room. Then she examines minutely

all the details of our toilets, trying our stays to see if they are

tight enough, and commenting on every stray hair. After that, we give

her an account of what we have read in our closets, and read aloud to

her the lessons of the day.

Then come our lessons,—French and music and Italian. My aunt will have

both the girls learn music; and Meg makes great proficiency, but Bess

hates it: she has no ear, and does make the most terrible work. In the

afternoon we take turns, two to go out with my lady, and one to stay

at home, and work at embroidery, or sometimes at plain white seams for

some poor body, for my aunt is very charitable. She says we owe it to

our position to be kind to the poor, but I don't think I should want

any one to be kind to me in that way. Then in the evening we go out

somewhere, to a play, or the opera, which is very fashionable just now;

or to spend the evening with some friend of my aunt's.

Certainly it is a very different life from that I have been leading the

last few years, but I think I go to bed at night quite as tired as I

used to when I was running half the day to wait on my mistress. There

are many pleasant things which were wanting in my former life, love

being the best of all. I do really think my aunt loves me, sharp as she

is at times, and I know my cousins do.

Then, I have my lessons, especially my music, in which Mr. Goodgroome

says I make great progress; and there is the feeling that nobody

grudges me my living. My aunt is generous as the day; and if she checks

us in eating and drinking (as I must say she too often does), it is,

as she says, for our good, lest we should spoil our figures. I believe

I am very perverse not to be happy here, but I am afraid I am not. But

I must hurry to put away my book. My work is all done, that is one

comfort.

_August 15._

We had rather a painful scene yesterday, in which poor Meg hath been

the sufferer, which is uncommon. It is generally Betty who comes in

for her mother's anger when she is angry, which, in truth, is not very

often. But we had been to a play in which there was dancing; and after

we were come home, my aunt gave us the rather uncommon indulgence of a

little supper. She was talking of the play and the actors, and remarked

that one of them, Becky Marshall, was said to be the daughter of a

Presbyterian minister. She asked me if I had ever heard any thing about

the matter.

"Yes, aunt," I answered, "I heard Mr. Pendergast say that her father

was a most worthy man, who, he thought, could hardly be happy in heaven

if he knew how his daughters had turned out. I know that Mr. Pendergast

went himself to try to win the girls from their way of life, but he did

not succeed."

"I dare say not," said my aunt. "A woman must be pretty well hardened

in sin before she would take to such courses, exhibiting herself for

money, and in men's attire. But it was a kind and Christian act to try

to rescue the poor creature. Who is this Mr. Pendergast?"

"A Presbyterian minister, aunt, whom I used to meet at my Lady

Corbet's. He and his wife were very good to me there."

"Oh!" said my aunt, slightly disconcerted, I fancy, that she had been

betrayed into praising a Presbyterian minister. "However, I won't say

that it was not a good and kind deed," she added; "though, as I said, a

woman must be lost to all sense of goodness before she would take such

a place at all. When I was young, no women ever appeared on the stage.

All the women's parts were taken by boys; and, as I remember, there

were some—Bishop Hall for one—who objected even to that, and Mr. Prynne

wrote an immense book about it."

"But, madam," said Margaret timidly, "if it be wrong for women to act

on the stage, is it not, wrong for other women to go and see them, and

thus encourage them?"

My aunt looked at her daughter in amazement. Margaret went on, as if

she were determined to free her mind for once, despite Betty's pinches,

and the warning glances of Mrs. Sharpless sent from behind her lady's

chair. "In the lesson we read this morning, madam, the apostle tells us

that women are to be attired in modest apparel, with shamefacedness,

not with gold or pearls or costly array; and St. Peter, as I remember,

says the same. Now these poor creatures, I suppose, take to the stage

to make a living, and no doubt they are bad enough. ¹ But if we go to

hear them, and thus encourage them in their miserable way of life, only

for our idle amusement, are we not more to blame than they? I must

needs think so."

¹ It must be understood that I am speaking of the stage in the time of

the Stewarts. Of the stage at present I know next to nothing, save that

it is much better than it was then.—L. E. G.

"Marry come up! What sort of Puritan have I for a daughter?" said my

aunt angrily. "Upon whom do you presume to sit in judgment, mistress?

Do you not see all the very best ladies of the court and in society at

the play?"

"And don't you see, Meg, that if we are to take the apostles' words for

what they say, we are all wrong together?" said Betty. "What becomes of

all our uncovered necks and bosoms and our jewels and gold lace? You

would condemn us all in a lump."

My aunt did not see the sarcasm at all, but giving Betty an approving

nod, she bestowed on Margaret a severe lecture for her perverseness,

ending with,—

"Of course things are different now. We owe it a duty to the world to

dress according to our station, and to follow the customs of society;

and it is not for chits like you to set up to dictate. You are to do as

you are bid."

"I have no wish to do any thing else," Margaret began.

But her mother stopped her, bidding her go to bed, and not appear

before her again till she had learned without book three parts of

the 119th Psalm in French. My aunt kept us to treat us to plum-cake,

seasoned with a lecture on the evil of young people professing to know

more than their elders.

As we went up-stairs, we heard Meg sobbing in her room, but she would

not let us in.

This morning she was up very early; and, when we went to my aunt, she

had her task prepared, whereat my aunt kissed and forgave her. But

after all, thinking it over, I can't see but Meg was right. The Bible

does say those very words, for I looked them up afterward. I said as

much to Betty.

"Of course she was right," said Bess; "that is, if there be any right

or reality about it anywhere. I would like to know where in the New

Testament my mother finds laid down the duty which Christians owe to

the world. I think I will ask Dr. Tenison about that, if ever I have a

chance."

"But, Bess, all the ladies my aunt visits, and those whom she holds up

to us for examples, do these things," said I. "My Lady Sunderland, as

particular as she is, was at the play last night."

"There was a time, or so I suppose, that all the fine ladies went to

see Christian men and women and poor captives fight for their lives

with wild beasts," retorted Bess. "You know we read about the vestal

virgins yesterday, and how they always had the best places."

"Anyhow I am glad my aunt hath taken Meg into favor again," said I. "I

could not but wonder at her coming out so. It was not like her."

"You will say it is just like her when you know her better," said

Bess. "Every now and then she angers my mother in the same way. I

wish she would not; for it does no good, and only brings down a storm

which hurts Meg, and some additional task which hurts her still more.

Don't you see how pale she is to-day? I dare swear she did not sleep

last night. I do think my mother is as blind as a bat. Oh, how I wish

something would happen that we might go to my aunt Laneham's again!"

"Why, where is she?" I asked.

"She lives in Biddeford, and my mother sent us to her once when one of

our servants had small-pox. Meg was happier there than I ever saw her,

though my aunt Laneham is poor, and our meat and lodging were plain

enough. But she went out with my aunt and uncle to visit the poor folk

and the sick; and then aunt knows how to let one alone, which I believe

my mother never can. O Dorothy, I would do any thing in the world for

Meg!"

"There is one thing you could do for her," said I, "and that is to take

more pains with your music, and not make such dreadful noises on the

harpsichon."

Bess turned round and looked at me in amazement, with her eyebrows

lifted to the top of her forehead so it was well my aunt did not see

her.

"What do you mean?" said she. "You know I have no ear. You said so

yourself."

"I never said you had no eyes," I answered. "See here. Your eyes tell

you that the notes in that chord are B, D, and G, don't they?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"And they also tell you what are the keys on the harpsichon answering

to those notes?"

Bess nodded.

"Then why can't you play those notes instead of scraping our ears by

playing F and C?"

Betty's eyebrows came down a little, and she looked like one who has

received a new idea. "Do you really think I could learn to play,

Dorothy?" she asked.

"I do think so. I won't say you could ever make a great player. Your

ear is not fine enough. But you can learn to play correctly if you do

but take pains enough, and certainly that would be a comfort to Meg.

Her ear is so fine that every discord is a torture to her, though she

would never say so."

"She is too sweet and patient ever to complain of any thing," said

Bess; "the more shame that she should be murdered by inches, which is

what my mother is doing."

"You should not say so," said I, shocked at her words. "Come, now, play

your lesson, and I will overlook you if you like."

"And what about your French verb?"

"Oh, I know it already! Come, begin, and I will count for you."

We really did get through the lesson very decently, and I felt paid for

all my pains by Betty's glance when Meg said this morning, "You played

that nicely, Bess. It was really a pleasure to hear you."

When the lesson was done, Betty put her arms round me and kissed me.

"I am so glad you came here, Dorothy.—Are not you, Meg?"

"Yes, indeed!" says Meg.

"That is, for our sake I am," said Bess. "I am not sure I am for yours."

"Then you should be," said I; for I won't encourage Bess in her

discontent, which only makes matters worse. "I am sure your mother is

most kind, far beyond any thing I had a right to expect, in putting

me, a stranger, on an exact equality with her own daughters in all

respects, and presenting me to all her friends."

"Yes, that is a great privilege," muttered Bess.

"It 'is' a privilege, as you would know, if you had been motherless so

long as I have," I answered. "Granting for the sake of argument that my

aunt makes mistakes, yet you must see that all she does is with a view

to our good. She said last night that if she could see us well settled

in the world, she would be ready to leave it."

"Does she not talk like a preacher?" said Betty, turning to Meg.

"'Granting for the sake of argument.' Did you learn that from your Mr.

Pendergast, Dorothy."

I never mind Betty's mocking speeches; for to me, at least, there is no

unkindness in her mockery.

"I never learned any thing but good of him, and I dare say I might have

learned more than I did," I returned.

"What sort of person was he?" asked Margaret. "Was he a gentleman?"

"I don't exactly know what you mean by a gentleman."

"What! You don't know what is meant by a gentleman, when you see such

shining examples before you every day!" said Betty. "Look at my Lord

Chesterton, if you want the model of a gentleman."

"He certainly was not a bit like my Lord Chesterton," said I, "for he

was a little, meagre man, very poorly dressed. But I must say I liked

him much the best of the two, if I must compare them."

"And he did not flourish his snuff-box, nor swear every other word,

nor tell stories about Mrs. This and Lady T'other, and boast of the

conquests he had made? Of course he could not be a gentleman," said

Bess.

"Don't let us spoil our holiday talking of such things," said Margaret.

"I hate the very sound of them. Sing us a nice song, Dorothy. Sing that

lovely hymn of Bishop Ken's that Mr. Goodgroome brought us the other

day, and let us forget the world for a little."

I sung the hymn, and then another that I learned of Bab Andrews,

about the golden city of Jerusalem, with which Margaret was greatly

delighted, and asked me who was the author. I told her it was writ in

Latin by St. Bernard, I believed, but I did not tell her that it had

been done into English by poor Mr. Fairchild, as a farewell token to

his mistress. I felt as if Bab's confidences were sacred.

"That just suits Margaret. Would you not like to be a nun, Meg?" asked

Betty.

"No," said Meg, after a little consideration, "I don't think I should.

I would like to live as my aunt Laneham does, or like my Lady Jemima

Stanton, that the dean's wife took us to see once when we were little

girls. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, indeed," said Bess. "What a happy day we had! But I am not sure I

should like to live like my aunt Laneham all the time,—to wear grogram

and homespun, and count every sixpence and every slice of bread as she

does."

"Is she so very penurious, then?" I asked, thinking of my mistress.

"I don't think Meg would like that at all, not if she had had my

experience."

"My aunt Laneham is not one bit penurious," said Meg, rather

indignantly. "I never saw people so open-handed as she and my uncle.

But he is a clergyman, with a large parish, and a not very large

living; and my aunt is obliged to spare that she may have wherewith to

be generous."

"That is a very different matter," I answered. "That is like Mr. and

Mrs. Pendergast, if you are not tired of hearing about them."

"I am not," said Meg. "I like to hear all about such people. Tell us

more about them."

So we sat down, I with my knitting,—which my aunt highly commends,

and has given me silk thread enough for a pair of hose,—and the girls

with their white seam, and I told them all I knew about the minister's

family and household,—how poor they were, and what hard work they often

had to appear even decently clad; and how Mrs. Pendergast and her

oldest daughter Beulah went about among the poor folks, and had the

little ones come to them to learn to read and sew; and so on, making a

long story out of a little, because I saw that Meg was pleased. When I

stopped at last—

"I don't see but good people are much alike everywhere," said Meg.

"This minister's wife seems very much like my aunt Laneham."

"What is that?" said my aunt, opening the door. "What about aunt

Laneham?"

I started, she came in so quietly, but Meg answered tranquilly,—

"I was only saying, madam, that my aunt was like a very good woman

Dorothy was telling us of, who visited the poor and sick, and taught

little maidens to read and sew."

"Ah, poor sister Laneham! She threw herself away dreadfully. She might

have been living in one of the finest country-houses in Devon, but she

would have her own way, and she got it. I always thought her parents

much to blame in giving in to her. But your grandfather and grandmother

were very lax with their children. Talking of clergymen, Margaret, I

hear you were not at church this morning. How was that?"

"I was there, madam, but I felt faint and ill, and so sat under a

window, that I might have the fresh air," answered Meg.

"Oh, very well! Lady Carewe told me she did not see you."

"Spiteful, tattling old toad!" muttered Betty between her teeth, which

my aunt, overhearing, rewarded with a sharp rap from her fan-handle,

which was meant for her shoulders, but unluckily fell across her check

instead, making a red bar on the white skin. Betty uttered a cry of

pain, for she has been having the toothache lately, and her cheek is

very tender.

Meg started forward, her pale cheek flushed for once.

"You must not give way to these megrims, Meg," said my aunt, taking no

notice of Betty. "They are more than half fancy, and the more you give

way to them, the more you may. Let me see you down-stairs in an hour,

nicely dressed. My Lady Sunderland has lent us her box for the play

to-night. Dorothy, you may wear your green silk, and Margaret may do

the same. Betty will wear her old black silk."

With that she left the room; and Meg and I set ourselves to comfort

and quiet Betty, who was in an agony of rage and shame, and of pain as

well, for the blow had set her teeth to aching. I know one thing: if

ever I have a grown-up daughter, I will never strike her.

"You cannot go to the play to-night, Bess, that is one comfort," said

Meg.

And indeed her face was swollen and angry, and growing worse every

moment.

"I will go," said Bess. "I will shame her before all the company."

"Shame your own mother!" said I. "Remember, her shame is yours; and,

beside, my aunt did not mean to strike your face."

All we could do did not avail to prevent Bess from going down to the

parlor, though her face was a woeful spectacle, with a fiery red bar

across it, and the blood settling round her eye. Luckily, there were no

strangers present. My aunt did look disconcerted for a moment.

"You cannot go to the play in this state," said she. "I did not mean to

strike your cheek, nor to strike so hard."

"It does not matter, madam," answered Betty.

"Don't answer me in that tone, child," said my aunt, more gently than I

expected. "Do you not know, Betty, that young folks must be corrected

sometimes? How else would they be fitted to take their proper places in

society? My whole desire is to see Margaret and yourself, and Dorothy

too," she added kindly, "well settled in the world, and answering to

what the world expects of ladies in your condition."

"And what about the other world, madam?" asked Betty, who had got the

bit between her teeth, and was reckless of consequences. "That is a

world, which, if all we hear be true, is likely to last a good deal

longer than this. How about that?"

My lady looked really grieved.

"I did not expect such a question from my daughter," said she. "Do

I not take all the pains possible with your religious education? Do

I not give you the best books of devotion that can be found both in

French and English? Do I not send you to church every day and twice on

Sundays? What more can I do? But there, I pardon you, child. You have

your father's temper, and one must make allowances. Go to your room,

and bid Sharpless make a poultice for your face, and I will send you

some custard for your supper. But try to rule your spirit, Betty, and

do not doubt your mother's love, though she may think it needful to

cross you at times."

I saw that Betty was softened in a moment, though she said nothing. Meg

ventured to ask if she might stay with her sister, but my aunt said no.

She had made up a party for her box, and could not have it broken up.

So we went to the play; and there we met Lord Chesterton, who devoted

himself to Meg all the evening, much to her annoyance. I could not

but wonder if it were necessary to the character of a fine gentleman

to take the name of God in vain at every breath, as they all do. Mr.

Evelyn is as fine a gentleman as any of them, and I never heard him do

it. It used to scare me dreadfully at first; but I am growing used to

it, and even find myself catching up the words, which some ladies use

very freely, I find.

_August 20._

I have seen Mr. Morley.

We went to church as usual this morning. Ursula Jackson comes every

Sunday with her husband, and I have got a habit of looking for her, and

sometimes of speaking when we meet. My aunt doth not object, because

she says we owe it to ourselves to be civil to all, each in their

degree.

Well, I looked round as usual, after we had curtsied to my Lady Carewe

(a wonderful object she is in her black locks and rouged cheeks, which

show the crow's feet and wrinkles through all her paint). Well, I

glanced toward Ursula's pew, as usual, and there sat Mr. Morley. I

was so astonished I could hardly command myself. While I was looking,

Ursula and her husband came in; and Mr. Morley rose to make room for

them, with a polite salute, which Mr. Jackson returned, though he

looked like a small thunder-storm. Mr. Morley bowed very particularly

to me; and I returned his salute, not knowing what else to do.

When we came out, my aunt asked me who it was that had bowed to me. I

told her it was a distant cousin of Lady Corbet's, whom I had met at

her house.

"One of her way of thinking?" she asked.

"No, madam," I answered. "He has a company in Col. Kirke's regiment."

"Ay, I thought he looked like a soldier," was her comment.

As we passed out, I heard Mr. Jackson rating the old pew-opener for

daring to put a stranger into his seat. The poor old woman protested

that she meant no offence, saying the gentleman had told her he was

Mrs. Jackson's cousin. Ursula stood by without a word. I fancy she hath

met her match, and I am not one bit sorry if she has.

What was my surprise, on coming down in the evening, to find Mr. Morley

with my aunt, and evidently in favor!

"Mr. Morley has brought me a letter from your father, girls," said my

aunt, as she presented him to us. "He is on his way up to town, and as

Mr. Morley passed him on the road, he was kind enough to take charge of

a packet. Your father was obliged by business to stop a few days on the

road, but he will be here the last of the week."

Both the girls uttered exclamations of joy. They are clearly very fond

of their father, who I fancy is more indulgent than their mother.

"Sir Robert is happy in having such affectionate daughters," said Mr.

Morley, bowing; "and I am glad to find my old acquaintance, Mrs. Dolly

Corbet, in such pleasant circumstances."

"Yes, my girls are fond of their father, who spoils them dreadfully,"

said my aunt, looking not ill-pleased, however. "Dorothy has not yet

seen her uncle."

Mr. Morley staid to supper, and made himself so agreeable that I felt

proud of him. Of course, we had no chance to talk together in private,

but it was enough for once to be in the room with him, to hear his

voice, and catch now and then a glance from his eye meant for me alone.

When at last he took his leave, my aunt asked him to come again.

I should be the happiest girl alive only that Meg has taken an

unaccountable dislike to him. When I ventured to ask her what she

thought of him, "Why, as I thought when I saw the great American viper

that Mr. Boyle showed us in his museum," said she. "His head hath just

the same shape; only they say the viper gives warning when he is about

to strike, and I doubt this one would not."

"You are not used to be so uncharitable, Meg," said I, very much vexed.

"Perhaps I am wrong," said she, "but I took a dislike to the man the

moment I saw him."

"You ought to like him because he is my friend," said I.

"That is the very reason I don't," she rejoined.

"And what say you, Betty?" I asked. "Don't you like him, either?"

"I don't like or dislike him," said Betty. "He is like all the

rest,—stale, flat, and unprofitable. Oh, how I do hate it all! But I am

glad my father is coming up: do you know why?"

"Because you wish to see him."

"Yes, and because I know very well he will never endure to stay here

long. He hates London as much as I do, and you will see he will whisk

us down to dear old Devon before three weeks are over; and oh, how glad

I shall be!—Won't you, Meg?"

"Yes, if I go," said Meg wearily. "Dolly, will you let Sharpless come

to me first to-night, I am so tired?" (For we take turns in being first

waited on.)

"You may have her all the time, for all I care," said I. "You know I am

used to dressing myself. But why do you say, 'if I go'? Of course you

will go with us."

She shook her head sadly, but said not one word, as she passed into her

room and closed the door. I looked at Betty.

"What does she mean?" said I.

"I don't know," answered Betty, "only Meg always thinks she shall die

young. But there may be another reason. Come into my room, Dorothy."

She shut the door, and said in a low tone, "I think my mother has a

match in hand for her."

"You don't mean Lord Chesterton!" I exclaimed, rather more loudly than

was prudent.

"Hush!" said Bess. "Yes, I am afraid so."

"But she cannot abide him!"

"He is an earl's son and probable heir to a dukedom," said Betty

bitterly.

"And an atheist, open and avowed."

"Well, not exactly that. You know it is the genteel thing for men to

have doubts about religion."

I thought of Mr. Morley, and was silent for a moment. Then I asked,

"But what think you your father will say?"

"He would not let Meg be sacrificed—or think not—if she were utterly

set against this man," answered Betty slowly; "though Sir Robert rarely

interferes with my mother. I think you will love him, Dolly, though he

is rather rough in his ways at times. But I don't know that his oaths

and stories are any worse than those of the fine gentlemen that visit

my mother."

"I don't see how they could be. But, Bess, don't be too much cast down.

It may well be that we are borrowing trouble about Meg."

"Well, I hope so. There is one thing about it, I don't believe any one

she marries will trouble her long. Good-night, Dolly."

_August 27._

My uncle has come, a big, roistering country gentleman, who kissed me

on both sides of my face, and bade God bless me, and in the same breath

damned his man for not bringing his bootjack. But I like him for all;

there is something real and genuine about him. He scolded about our

pale cheeks, vowed he would have us out stag-hunting, and asked me if I

could ride.

"I don't know, uncle. I am like the man in the jest-book, who said he

did not know if he could play the fiddle, because he had never tried."

He laughed a great, hearty laugh, and said he was glad to see I had a

spirit of my own. Then turning to his elder daughter,—

"Why, Meg, thou lookest more like a white bind-weed than ever. What

ails thee, child?"

"Margaret hath been a little drooping, but we shall soon have her

better," said my aunt. "Will you not wash and dress before supper, Sir

Robert?"

"Oh, ay, I suppose so!" said he, and strode away whistling.

The house seems brighter already for his presence. He hath begged a

holiday for us that he may take us to see the sights. My aunt gives in

to him wonderfully, and Betty hangs on him like a burr. He has taken

us to see the lions in the tower, and some other sights, and given us

two or three drives out of town to one resort and another. Among others

we went to Hackney, and saw the place where I went to school. The old

house was pulled down, and a new one was going up, which I suppose my

poor mother's three hundred pounds helped to build. I would I had the

ordering of a few clever hobgoblins for the owner's benefit. He would

not stay long in his fine mansion.

Mr. Morley hath called two or three times, and hath even dined with us.

My uncle says he is a rising man, in favor at court, and like to do

well. He hath paid me some attention, but of course we have no chance

to talk together in private. Only last night we had a few words over

the harpsichon, where he had been singing with me.

"I am afraid you don't care for me any more, Dolly," said he. "Your

grand friends and admirers have made you forget your poor soldier of

fortune."

"I know not why you should say that," I answered. "Would you have me

run after you?"

"Ah, I see you have learned 'repartee!' But do you remember our

interviews in the park? I would we could have another such walk

together as we had that last morning. Come, meet me to-morrow in the

old place."

"I cannot if I would, and I would not if I could," said I. "I promised

solemnly I would never do that again."

"And to whom did you give that promise? To your amiable mistress, or

to her vinegar-faced waiting-woman? Pshaw, Dolly! Vows were made to be

broken."

"I tell you it is impossible!" said I. "You might as well ask me to

meet you in the moon."

My aunt called me at that moment, so I could say no more. I don't know

how it is: I ought to be the happiest girl in the world now that I can

see Mr. Morley so often, and that my uncle and aunt like him, but I am

not. I suppose perfect happiness is not for this world.

_September 1._

My uncle already talks of going down to Fullham, and the girls are

well-pleased. I don't want to go at all.

_September 2._

The murder is out. Lord Chesterton has made proposals for Margaret, and

been accepted. My uncle pished and pshawed a little about giving his

Meg to a courtier, but gave in when my aunt represented the likelihood

of Meg's being a duchess; for the duke's elder son is lately dead, and

the other is a poor, sickly little lad. Margaret says little, but makes

no objection. She grows thinner and paler every day, but my aunt does

not seem to notice it, or has not till lately. Now she makes her take

a little ale with her dinner, and two or three nights she hath herself

brought her a cup of wine whey at night.

I cannot make Meg out. Sometimes I think she is pleased with the

thought of being a duchess and living in that grand house, though that

is not like her. For my own part, I would rather live in a cabin with

the man I love. I said as much to Meg one night.

"And so would I, perhaps, if things were different," said she, with a

moonlight smile; "but, as it is, it does not matter."

"Why do you always say that?" I asked. "I think it matters a great

deal."

"If you were to stay only an hour or two at an inn on your way home,

you would not care much, though your accommodations were rough, and

your companions not greatly to your mind," said Meg.

"I don't understand you," said I.

But I had no chance to ask any more, for my lady called us to see

the splendid presents of jewels and lace that the duke hath sent to

Margaret. The poor little boy fades every day, they say, and the duke

treats his nephew already as his heir. I never in all my life saw such

pearls,—as big as peas, and of a wonderful purity and lustre. And there

is a sapphire jewel, in a ring, which is like a piece out of the blue

sky. Meg regarded them all with the same tranquil gravity with which

she looks at all the splendid preparations for her bridal.

"My uncle has been very kind, has he not?" said Lord Chesterton, who

had himself brought the jewels.

"Yes, every one is very kind," said Margaret gently.

"But you don't care for the silly things, after all?" said he, looking

earnestly at her. (I do think he is in love with her.) "Mrs. Margaret,

what can I do to give you a pleasure? I would sell my soul to see you

look pleased for once."

Margaret turned her lovely eyes upon him with an earnest expression.

"Then if you would really please me, my lord, there is one thing you

might do, and that is to break off such expressions as you used just

now."

(For he had confirmed his words with an oath, as usual.) "I beseech

you to break off this habit of taking God's holy name in vain on every

light occasion. That indeed would give me great pleasure."

"Well, I will," said he, kissing the hand she had laid on his arm in

her earnestness. "I know 'tis a bad habit, but after all, it means

nothing."

"That is just the trouble," said Meg. "It is against that very

meaningless invocation of the holy name that the command is aimed. I

beseech you, my lord, if you care for me, to break it off."

"I will try, indeed I will," said he; "I'll be—" Then catching himself

up with an embarrassed laugh, "There it is, you see. But indeed,

Margaret, I will try, if only to please you."

I never liked my lord so much as at that moment. He forgot his

affectations, and looked and spoke like a man.

My aunt, coming back just then, began praising the jewels.

"I never saw any thing so beautiful," said she. "Of what do they remind

you, Margaret?"

"Of the twelve gates that were twelve pearls," said Margaret; "and of

the walls of the city that are built of precious stones."

I saw the tears come to my Lord Chesterton's eyes as he turned away to

the window.

"You see my daughter is very religious," said my aunt.

"I would not have her otherwise, madam," he answered. "My own mother

is a devout woman, and prays for her scapegrace of a son every day.

Perhaps her prayers may be answered: who knows?—I think you will love

my mother, Margaret. You and she will take pleasure in trotting about

to the cottages together, and the north winds will blow some roses into

these pale cheeks. I do hope you will like my mother."

"I am sure I shall," said Margaret, with far more interest than she

had showed in the jewels. "Does she visit among the poor folk? Tell me

about her."

Lord Chesterton looked as pleased as a boy at having found something to

gratify his lady, and they talked together a long time. I believe there

is good in him, after all.

I heard a bit of good news to-day; namely, that Mr. Baxter is released

from prison on payment of his fine, which it seems was raised by

his friends. I wonder if my mistress gave another seven shillings.

Mr. Morley brought the news, adding that folks said his Majesty was

courting the Dissenters.

"And what is that for?" asked my uncle, who, I believe, thinks of

Dissenters as of some troublesome kind of weeds or animals.

"I can but tell you what is in men's mouths," said Mr. Morley. "'Tis

rumored that his Majesty intends to issue an act of toleration to his

own sort of people, and that he will include the Dissenters, so as a

little to take off the edge, as it were."

"And they will jump at the chance, of course," said my uncle; "and we

shall have a conventicle at every corner, eh, Dolly? Don't you think

so? Won't your Presbyterian friends jump at the chance?"

"I think not, sir," I answered. "Once when the matter was talked of, I

heard one of their divines say that they would not accept toleration on

any such terms."

"And did you ever see this Mr. Baxter, this Kidderminster bishop as

Jeffreys called him?" asked my uncle.

"Oh, yes, sir, many times! He was very kind to me. I am glad with all

my heart he is out of prison."

My aunt frowned. "You are too forward, Dorothy," said she. "Nobody

asked your opinion about the matter. Young ladies should be seen, not

heard."

"Oh, let her alone! I like to hear the wench stand up for her friends,"

said my uncle. "But you are not a Presbyterian, are you, Dolly? We

can't have that, eh, Mr. Morley?"

"No, sir, I am not a Presbyterian, but I have had good friends among

them, as you say," I answered.

"That's well, and I 'am' sorry for the poor things out our way," said

my uncle musingly. "I do think they have had very hard measure, very

needlessly hard. No offence to you, Mr. Morley."

"I cannot take offence where none is meant," said Mr. Morley. "You

know, sir, that war is a rough trade, and Col. Kirke's lambs learned it

in a rough school."

"True, 'tis a rough trade, but it need not be made rougher," said my

uncle.

And he began to tell one tale after another of horror, which made me

sick.

Surely Mr. Morley did never stain his hands with such cruelty. He has

always seemed so kind-hearted.

After dinner, my aunt took me to task sharply for my forwardness. She

has been sharp with me several times of late, and also with Betty,

while she is very tender and gentle with Margaret.

_September 3._

Our new rector preached to-day,—a very fine sermon, I thought, on the

words, "He that believeth on me hath everlasting life." I saw my aunt

look displeased at some passages, but Margaret drank it in as if it had

been the water of life. As for Betty, I fancy she never listens to a

sermon, but she did give the preacher some of her attention to-day.

"Well, and how did you like the preacher?" said my uncle, when we came

home.

"I cannot say that I liked him," replied my aunt. "It seems to me

that his doctrine, if received, would make room for all sorts of

immoralities. If a man only believes right, he can do whatever wrong he

pleases."

"Under your favor, madam, I think not so," said Margaret. "Do you

not see that any one who in his heart believes in the Lord Jesus

Christ must needs act so as to please him? Such a person would make a

conscience of his very thoughts, knowing that by them he must please or

displease the Holy Ghost dwelling in his heart."

"That is rather an awful thought, Mrs. Margaret," observed Lord

Chesterton, who had come to dine as usual.

"Awful, but comforting," said she, giving him one of the sweet smiles

she bestows on him nowadays, and which make him flush like a boy.

"Well, well, we won't debate the preacher at present," said my aunt.

"Go, girls, and make ready for dinner."

"So you liked the preacher," said I, as we went up-stairs.

"Yes, indeed," she answered with earnestness. "I think he hath taken

the last stone out of my road."

I did not understand her, and there was no time to ask. We went to

church again in the afternoon, but we heard nothing of the sermon,

for Meg fainted, and had to be carried into the vestry. She revived

presently, enough to be taken home in the coach which my lord sent for,

but she has not been up since, and looks badly.

_September 6._

Margaret has been down to-day for the first time since her fainting

on Sunday, but she looks pale. My aunt makes light of her illness to

herself, but I see she watches her very closely. Betty attends on her

like her shadow. She and I sleep together now. As we are to have so

much company in the house, my room will be needed as a guest-room. As

we were going to bed, I bethought me to tell Betty of Meg's words, and

ask what she thought they meant.

"I don't know," answered Betty. "I don't pretend to understand such

matters."

"I think Margaret likes Lord Chesterton better than she did," said I.

"Yes, I said as much to her; and she told me she was afraid so," said

Betty.

"What did that mean? Why should she be afraid of liking her bridegroom

too well," I asked. "I should say the more she liked him, the better."

"You are just as blind as all the rest," answered Betty impatiently.

"Can't you see an inch before you? I don't so much wonder in your case,

but I am astonished at my mother. But some people never will believe

what they don't like to believe. I suppose when my mother sees Margaret

in her coffin, she will understand at last."

"You think that Margaret is seriously ill, then?" said I, startled.

"I think she is dying, and so does Sharpless," answered Betty. "She

will never wear her bridal dress, unless she is buried in it."

"But why should you think so? What ails her?"

"She has been 'murdered!'" said Betty, setting her teeth hard.

"Murdered by inches with tight lacing and late hours, and physic to

improve her complexion, and all the rest of my mother's regimen."

"Hush!" said I. "You should not say so. Your mother means nothing but

what is right, I am sure."

"Oh, yes, she 'means!'" retorted Betty. "She means to take an angel,

and make her a woman of the world, but the angel has grown weary,

and is pluming her wings for flight. You will see, if you will not

believe.—O Meg, Meg, how shall I ever live without thee!"

And with that she burst into tears, and wept so bitterly that my aunt

heard her, and came in to see what was the matter. I told her that

Betty was grieved about her sister's health, fearing she was seriously

ill.

"Is that all?" said she, but not unkindly. "My dear child, you are

fanciful, and are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Do you not

see that your sister is better already? Do but notice what a sweet

flush she has in her cheeks. These fainting-fits are but the natural

agitation of spirits at the prospect before her. A month hence you will

see your sister a happy bride, and then you will laugh at your present

fears. Come, dry your eyes, and go to bed, and all will be well. I am

not displeased with you, child. There, good-night."

I was glad that Betty was crying too much to answer her mother a word,

for I am always afraid of one of her tantrums. I hope she is mistaken,

but I do think Margaret is more out of health than her mother imagines.

I can't but think of Betty's words about making an angel into a woman

of the world. Now, the Scriptures talk all the way through as though

the world were the enemy of God,—even going so far as to say that any

one who is a friend of this world must be an enemy of God. And yet, so

far as I can see, my aunt lives for the world: yes, just as much as

ever my mistress did; though one cares most for wealth, and the other

for fashion and position. And I don't see how one is a bit better than

the other.

My aunt will bow to, and exchange visits with, women whom it is

impossible she can respect; she will even abase herself to ask favors

of them: and why is that any better than the doing of mean things

for money? She does seem to me wholly inconsistent. She gives us a

book like "The Practice of Piety" or "The Divine Breathings," ¹—books

inculcating the very soul of purity and consecration to God,—to read in

the morning; and in the evening she takes us to see a play which turns

on successful wickedness, and where the name and the laws of God are

treated with equal disrespect.

¹ This most admirable little book has lately been reprinted in this

country, by Young. I wish some one would do as much for the Practice of

Piety, which is now very rare.

My mistress would read the Bible and Mr. Baxter's tractates in the

morning, and spend the rest of the day over her accounts, or in

exacting the last halfpenny of usury from some poor debtor. And I don't

see, for my part, why one is a bit better or worse than another. My

mistress talked of owing it to herself to do so and so. My aunt talks

of our duty to the world or to society, which is only another name for

the same thing.

But the Bible seems to say that the duty we owe to self is to deny it,

and the duty we owe to the world is to renounce it, and to labor for

its conversion. Now, Bab Andrews really has given up the world; and so,

according to Meg's account, hath my aunt Laneham; and I am sure the

Pendergasts and Mr. Baxter did not live for it. And, from what Lord

Chesterton says, I should think his mother was much such a lady as my

aunt Laneham. And I am sure my Lady Clarenham does not live for the

world.

And there is another thing. My aunt goes to church and to the holy

communion, and says the Creed, and professes to believe all the

Prayer-Book teaches; and yet she is not only willing, but delighted,

to give her daughter to a man like Lord Chesterton, who is an open

unbeliever, and whose course of life hath been somewhat notorious,

because he is of great family and heir to a dukedom. No, I don't

understand the matter at all.

_September 12._

Margaret is really ill. She lies in bed most of the day, not suffering

very much, except from weakness and from the pain in her right side

which has troubled her ever since I knew her. I don't know just what

the doctor thinks, but the wedding, which was to have been on the 15th,

is necessarily put off.

My Lord Chesterton is like one distracted, coming two or three times a

day to ask for his lady, and scouring city and country for fruit and

flowers and any thing that can give her pleasure. I never thought to

like him half so well. I see there really was a man hidden behind the

fop and courtier. For one thing, he hath left off swearing at every

other breath; and, when a hard word does escape, he looks heartily

ashamed. My uncle rallied him, telling him he was growing a Puritan.

Whereat, he answered that he would turn Quaker, like Will Penn, if

it would please his mistress, at which my uncle clapped him on the

shoulder and called him a good fellow.

_September 15._

It was to have been the wedding-day, but no one says a word about

weddings now. Only my aunt will have it that Meg is better, which no

one else can see.

_September 18._

Meg seems a little brighter. I said as much to Mrs. Sharpless, but

she only shook her head and turned away. She has had no hope from the

first; yet she is the most cheerful person in a sick-room I ever saw,

more so even than dear Mrs. Williams. The new rector hath been to see

Meg, at her request, and hath read and prayed with her. She seems to

find great comfort in his ministrations. He is rather a plain, awkward

man, but I must say he is a much more interesting preacher than old

Dr. Martin. He hath prayed for Meg in church. When I told my aunt of

it, thinking she would be pleased, she was not so at all; saying that

Margaret was not so bad as that, and it would be time to pray for her

in church when the doctor gave her up.

I saw Ursula this morning in church. And, as we were detained a little

in the porch by a passing shower, we had time for quite a chat. She

looks rather thin and worn, I think. I asked her if she were well.

"Yes, well enough, if that were all," she answered pettishly, and then

asked me if I ever saw Mr. Morley. I told her he was acquainted with my

uncle, and visited at our house, but that he was soon going down to the

west again.

"Don't you see him?" I asked.

"No, not often," she answered, turning scarlet, as though with some

unpleasant remembrance. "Dolly, whatever you do, never marry a

jealous-pated old man."

I did not know what to say to this, so I asked after Bab Andrews.

"She is well," was the reply, "but she has taken an odd crotchet in her

head since her father died."

"Oh the good old man, is he dead? How sorry I am!" said I. "Bab will

be very lonely. But what do you mean by a crotchet, Ursula? I did not

think Bab was given to them."

"No, I know she is perfect in your eyes," said Ursula. "Well, she hath

come to the conclusion that England is not good enough for such a saint

as herself: so she is even going to leave it, and betake herself to the

New England Colonies."

"She told me once she thought she might do so, if she were left alone,"

said I, "but it was not to New England she talked of going, but to some

newer colony farther to the south. I cannot think of the name now."

"Ah, well, it does not matter! It is much the same thing. I can't think

what should possess her, for she is left very well off, and might live

as she pleased. But it seems Mr. Fairchild's sister and her husband

went thither a year ago, and she means to join them. And so Mr. Morley

comes often to see you, Dolly?"

"I did not say so," I answered, vexed to feel myself blushing. "He is

an acquaintance of my uncle, as I told you."

"Well, don't lose your heart to him, lest you should find he hath more

than one string to his bow," said Ursula with an ill-natured laugh.

But the rain holding up there was no more time for converse, at which I

was glad. I do wish could see Bab once more.

_September 20._

I have had that pleasure, through my kind uncle's intercession. I was

coming down-stairs, when my aunt called me into her room, where an

elderly serving-man was waiting, whom I recognized at once as living

with Mr. Andrews. My aunt held a note in her hand.

"Dorothy, do you know Mrs. Barbara Andrews?" she asked.

"Yes, madam," I answered: "she is the daughter of the rich goldsmith

who died not long ago."

"Oh, I know him!" put in my uncle. "He lived in Lombard Street,—a very

worthy man and one who was of service to his late Majesty in the matter

of raising money. He did me a good turn once, in the same way. Yes,

yes, I remember him.—And so your master is dead," addressing himself to

the serving-man. "Well, well, I am sorry. Did he leave any family?"

"One daughter, sir," answered old Andrew.

"It is this young lady who writes to me, very properly and nicely

I must say," observed my aunt. "She tells me she is about to go to

America, and asks the favor of a day's visit from Dorothy."

"And you would like to go, eh, Dolly? Your face says as much," said my

uncle.

"Yes, sir; I should like it greatly," I answered. "Mrs. Andrews was the

only friend of mine own age I ever had till I knew my cousins."

"So much the better," said my aunt. "I am no great believer in girlish

intimacies, but as this young person is going away so far—What say you,

Sir Robert?"

"Oh, let her go, let her go!" said my uncle. "Old Mr. Andrews's

daughter is sure to be a pattern of all the graces, eh?" addressing

himself to the serving-man, who answered,—

"Mistress Barbara is one of the salt of the earth, sir,—the image of

her mother now in glory."

"Well, I am sure I hope so," said my uncle, in his kindly, blunt

fashion. "Oh, yes, let her go, my lady! She hath had but a dull time

lately. Let her go to please me."

This is my uncle's usual plea when he begs us a holiday, and my aunt

never refuses him. With an indulgent smile, she bade me get ready to go

with Andrew, for whom she ordered a cup of ale to be brought. I was not

long in dressing, and was soon on my way.

I found Bab looking much as usual, but very pretty in her mourning. The

house was already partly dismantled, but Bab's own rooms, her bedroom

and her little parlor, were untouched.

"Why, this is a pleasure I hardly dared expect!" said she, taking off

my hood and kissing me. "But I thought I would not fail of it for lack

of asking. Your aunt must be a kind lady."

"She is so, though rather strict in her notions," I answered, "but I

believe we owe our debt rather to my uncle, who used to know your good

father. But where is your aunt?"

"She hath taken a lodging near to my sister Staines in the country,"

said Bab. "She would fain have lived with them, but my brother Staines

would not have that. He told Hester he would do any thing for aunt

Jones except live with her."

"I don't blame him," said I.

"So he has fitted up this cottage for her, and Andrew's sister lives

with her to attend on her," continued Bab. "I hope she will be as happy

there as anywhere. As you say, Dolly, I do not blame my brother Staines

for not wanting her to spoil his children's comfort and his own. But

oh, Dolly, what a sad sight is unloving and unlovely old age!"

"It is, indeed," said I, thinking of my mistress. "But was it that

drove you to seek peace and quietness in a new settlement among the

Indian savages?"

"Why no, not exactly, though I will not deny that I find my aunt's

absence a great relief. But my aunt Atherton, my mother's sister, is

left quite alone by the death of her last daughter; and you know I

always professed myself fond of travelling: so, as some friends of mine

are going out, I thought I would even go with them, and try my fortune

in the New World."

"You have other friends there beside your aunt, have you not?" I asked.

Whereat she told me of Mr. and Mrs. Stacy, who had gone thither the

year before, and read me a letter she had from Mrs. Stacy. If I did

not know her to be one of the most particular persons in the world, I

should set down some of her accounts for mere traveller's tales: as

that the people go a-gathering of their peaches with carts, the fruit

hanging on the trees like onions in ropes, and as delicate as our best

wall-fruit, and cherries by the cartload, beside many wild fruits,

such as strawberries, gooseberries, hurtleberries, and cranberries,

which last are admirable for tarts and sauces, and many more such

particulars. ¹ Mrs. Stacy says the savages about them are peaceable,

good neighbors, and some of them are Christians. She sent Bab a long

necklace of their beads, made from shells, and which they use as money,

and value above all things.

¹ See Robert Stacy's letters quoted in the "Historical Collections of

New Jersey,"—a very valuable book.

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.