“Hundreds of questions! What did that matter to Sir Richard? They were like so many children, in _his_ hands. And, mind you, the luck helped him. To begin with, there was the common name. Who was to pick out your poor father among the thousands of James Browns? Then, again, the house and lands went to the male heir, as they called him--the man your father quarreled with in the bygone time. He brought his own establishment with him. Long before you got back from the friends you were staying with--don’t you remember it?--we had cleared out of the house; we were miles and miles away; and the old servants were scattered abroad, finding new situations wherever they could. How could you suspect us? We had nothing to fear in that way; but my conscience pricked me. I made another attempt to prevail on Miss Letitia, when you had recovered your health. I said, ‘There’s no fear of a relapse now; break it to her gently, but tell her the truth.’ No! Your aunt was too fond of you. She daunted me with dreadful fits of crying, when I tried to persuade her. And that wasn’t the worst of it. She bade me remember what an excitable man your father was--she reminded me that the misery of your mother’s death laid him low with brain fever--she said, ‘Emily takes after her father; I have heard you say it yourself; she has his constitution, and his sensitive nerves. Don’t you know how she loved him--how she talks of him to this day? Who can tell (if we are not careful) what dreadful mischief we may do?’ That was how my mistress worked on me. I got infected with her fears; it was as if I had caught an infection of disease. Oh, my dear, blame me if it must be; but don’t forget how I have suffered for it since! I was driven away from my dying mistress, in terror of what she might say, while you were watching at her bedside. I have lived in fear of what you might ask me--and have longed to go back to you--and have not had the courage to do it. Look at me now!” The poor woman tried to take out her handkerchief; her quivering hand helplessly entangled itself in her dress. “I can’t even dry my eyes,” she said faintly. “Try to forgive me, miss!” Emily put her arms round the old nurse’s neck. “It is _you_,” she said sadly, “who must forgive me.” For a while they were silent. Through the window that was open to the little garden, came the one sound that could be heard--the gentle trembling of leaves in the evening wind. The silence was harshly broken by the bell at the cottage door. They both started. Emily’s heart beat fast. “Who can it be?” she said. Mrs. Ellmother rose. “Shall I say you can’t see anybody?” she asked, before leaving the room. “Yes! yes!” Emily heard the door opened--heard low voices in the passage. There was a momentary interval. Then, Mrs. Ellmother returned. She said nothing. Emily spoke to her. “Is it a visitor?” “Yes.” “Have you said I can’t see anybody?” “I couldn’t say it.” “Why not?”