“I know what you were doing,” said Sara, “but it is too early yet. ’Round the ashen roots the violets blow’--I know that is what you were thinking of.” Pamela, who knew very little about violets, and nothing about poetry, opened her eyes very wide. “Indeed,” she said, anxiously, “I was only looking for some plantain for Betty’s bird--that was all. I did not mean to take any--flowers. I would not do any thing so--so--ungrateful.” “But you shall have as many violets as ever you like,” said Sara, who was eager to find any pretense for prolonging the conversation. “Do come and walk here by me. I am going to see old Betty. Do you know how she is to-day? Don’t you think she is a nice old woman? I am going to tell her she ought to have her grandchild to live with her, and open the gate, now that her rheumatism has come on. It always lasts three months when it comes on. Your Mr. Swayne’s, you know, goes on and off. I always hear all about it from my maid.” When she paused for breath, Pamela felt that as the tall gentleman took no part in the conversation, it was incumbent upon her to say something. She was much flattered by the unexpected grandeur of walking by Miss Brownlow’s side, and being taken into her confidence; but the emergency drove every idea out of her head, as was natural. She could not think of any thing that it would be nice to say, and in desperation hazarded a question. “Is there much rheumatism about here?” poor Pamela said, looking up as if her life depended on the answer she received; and then she grew burning red, and hot all over, and felt as if life itself was no longer worth having, after thus making a fool of herself. As if Miss Brownlow knew any thing about the rheumatism here! “What an idiot she will think me!” said she to herself, longing that the earth would open and swallow her up. But Miss Brownlow was by no means critical. On the contrary, Sara rushed into the subject with enthusiasm. “There is always rheumatism where there are so many trees,” she said, with decision--“from the damp, you know. Don’t you find it so at Motherwell, Sir Charles? You have such heaps of trees in that part of the county. Half my poor people have it here. And the dreadful thing is that one doesn’t know any cure for it, except flannel. You never can give them too much flannel,” said Sara, raising her eyes gravely to her tall companion. “They think flannel is good for every thing under the skies.” “Don’t know, I’m sure,” said Sir Charles. “Sure it’s very good of you. Don’t know much about rheumatism myself. Always see lots about in our place; flannel pettic--hem--oh--beg your pardon. I’m sure--”