"Please don't joke. Don't laugh at me." "Joke! laugh! I suppose you think that under the 'altered circumstances,' as you call them, I ought to renew my vows. And, by the way, I don't know that I ever did make you a formal offer; one that you could use against me in a suit of breach of promise. Miss Hereford, I lay my heart and hand at your disposal. Will you condescend to be my future wife, Lady Chandos?" Partly from vexation, partly from a great tumult of bliss, I gave no answer. Sir Harry took one for himself. Ay, and was welcome to take it. With my face in a burning heat,—with my heart in a glow of love, as if filled with the strains of some delightful melody,—with my whole being thrilling with rapture,—I ran upstairs, barely in time to change my dress for dinner, and nearly ran against Lady Chandos, who was coming out of the east wing. "There are twin genii, who, strong and mighty, Under their guidance mankind retain; And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure, And the name of the loathly one is Pain. Never divided, where one can enter Ever the other comes close behind; And he who in pleasure his thoughts would centre, Surely pain in the search shall find." The good old words (and I don't at this present moment of writing recollect whose they are) came forcibly to my mind in their impressive truth. The sight of Lady Chandos changed my pleasure to pain: for I had had no warranty from _him_ that she would approve of what he had been doing. Bounding into my bedroom, I stood there at the open door until she should pass: it would not do to shut it in her face, as though I had not seen her. But instead of passing, she turned to me. While my head was bowed in silent salutation, she halted, and put her hand upon my shoulder, causing my face to meet hers. With time consciousness of whose it had just met, and very closely, with the consciousness of feeling like a miserable interloping girl who was to be exalted into the place of her predecessor against her approving will, no wonder I trembled and bent my shrinking face. "And so you are to be my daughter-in-law?" The words were not spoken in angry pride, but in gentle kindness. I looked up and saw love in her eyes; and she might see the gratitude that shone in every line of mine. "Harry told me last night in the midst of our great sadness; after you had been into our poor George's room. My dear, I have heard a great deal of you since I have been upstairs in confinement, and I feel sure you will make him a good wife." In my revulsion of feeling I clasped her hands in mine, thanking her—oh, so earnestly. "There's only one thing," I said, with the tears running down my face. "What's that?" "I am not good enough for him. And oh, Lady Chandos, I was so afraid you would not think me so. I have been a governess, you know. I would have given him up, I have just told him so, now he is Sir Harry Chandos."