“It may be so. But it comes about like this. I asked Stephen to mark the sheet for me with a double L. for Louisa, Lady Lamerton, and a coronet over, but he was so scrupulous, he said it might be supposed I had carried it away from the park, and that as the sheet was given to us, we’d have it marked as our own. My husband is as particular about his conscience as one must be with the bones in a herring. It was Bond’s marking ink he used,” said Mrs. Saltren, eager to give minute circumstances that might serve as confirmation of her story, “and there was a stretcher of wood, a sort of hoop, that strained the linen whilst it was being written on. If you have any doubt, miss, about my story, you’ve only to ask for a bottle of Bond’s marking ink and you will see that they have circular stretchers—which is a proof that this is the identical sheet my lady gave me. Besides, there is a number under the letters.” “Yes, seven.” “That was my device. It rhymes with heaven, where my lady,—I mean my late lady is now taking precedence even of marchionesses.” Arminell said nothing. The woman’s mind was like her parlour, full of incongruities. “Look about you, miss,” continued Mrs. Saltren, “though I say it, who ought not, this is a pretty and comfortable house with a certain elegance which I have introduced into it. My brother, James Welsh, is a gentleman, and writes a great deal. You may understand how troubled my husband is at the thought of leaving it.” “But—why leave?” “Because, Miss Inglett, he will have no work here. He will be driven to go to America, and unfortunately he has expended his savings in doing up the house and planting the garden. I am too delicate to risk the voyage, so I shall be separated from my husband. My son Giles has already been taken from me.” Then she began to cry. A pair of clove-pinks glowed in Arminell’s cheeks. She could hardly control her voice. These poor Saltrens were badly used; her father was to blame. He was the occasion of their trouble. “It must not be,” said Arminell, starting up, “I will go at once and speak to his lordship.” CHAPTER VII. A VISION. Without another word Arminell left the cottage. As she did so, she passed Captain Saltren speaking to Captain Tubb. The former scarce touched his hat, but the latter saluted her with profound respect. When she was out of hearing, Saltren, whose dark eyes had pursued her, said in a low vibrating tone— “There she goes—one of the Gilded Clique.” “I think you might have shown her more respect, man,” said Tubb. “Honour to whom honour is due, and she is honourable.” “Why should I show respect to her? If she were a poor girl earning her bread, I would salute her with true reverence, for God hath chosen the poor, rich in faith. But is it not written that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for the rich to enter into heaven?” “You’ve queer fancies, Cap’n.”