I think the sound surprised even herself a little, for she proceeded to justify it at once. “I have been a better wife than a Christian this many years. But there's a limit. And, Richard, I should never have married you if you had told me we were to be at war all our lives with our next neighbor, that everybody respects. To live in the country, and not speak to our only neighbor, that is a life I never would have left my father's house for. Not that I complain: if you have been bitter to them, you have always been good and kind to me; and I hope I have done my best to deserve it; but when a sick lady, and perhaps dying, holds out her hand to me---write her one of your cold-blooded letters! That I WON'T. Reply? my reply will be just putting on my bonnet and going to her this afternoon. It is Passion-week, too; and that's not a week to play the heathen. Poor lady! I've seen in her sweet eyes this many years that she would gladly be friends with me; and she never passed me close but she bowed to me, in church or out, even when we were at daggers drawn. She is a lady, a real lady, every inch. But it is not that altogether. No, if a sick woman called me to her bedside this week, I'd go, whether she wrote from Huntercombe Hall or the poorest house in the place; else how could I hope my Saviour would come to _my_ bedside at my last hour?” This honest burst, from a meek lady who never talked nonsense, to be sure, but seldom went into eloquence, staggered Richard Bassett, and enraptured Ruperta so, that she flung both arms round her mother's neck, and cried, “Oh, mamma! I always thought you were the best woman in England, and now I know it.” “Well, well, well,” said Richard, kindly enough; then to Ruperta, “Did I ever say she was not the best woman in England? So you need not set up your throats neck and neck at me, like two geese at a fox. Unfortunately, she is the simplest woman in England, as well as the best, and she is going to visit the cunningest. That Lady Bassett will turn our mother inside out in no time. I wish you would go with her; you are a shrewd girl.” “My daughter will not go till she is asked,” said Mrs. Bassett, firmly. “In that case,” said Richard, dryly, “let us hope the Lord will protect you, since it is for love of Him you go into a she-fox's den.” No reply was vouchsafed to this aspiration, the words being the words of faith, but the voice the voice of skepticism. Mrs. Bassett put on her bonnet, and went to Huntercombe Hall. After a very short delay she was ushered upstairs, to the room where Lady Bassett was lying on a sofa. Lady Bassett heard her coming, and rose to receive her. She made Mrs. Bassett a court courtesy so graceful and profound that it rather frightened the little woman. Seeing which, Lady Bassett changed her style, and came forward, extending both hands with admirable grace, and gentle amity, not overdone.