Lady Bell, overlooked and forgotten, had stood aside during the late colloquy. In the girl’s eyes she had obtained proof positive that her aunt, Mrs. Die, was not only as wild but as mad as any inmate of Bedlam. Was it not sufficient that the wretched woman, older than Lady Bell’s mother would have been had she been alive, believed that she was the object of an unscrupulous passion? Doubtless, Mrs. Kitty made a feint of agreeing with Mrs. Die, to flatter and coax her, as mad people, who were not locked up and chained, were coaxed. “For certain, Mrs. Die looks as old and as horrid as the hills,” reflected Lady Bell hastily, “with those sticking-out bones and ploughed furrows in her cheeks. She must be many a long day past love and lovers. But I must humour her too,” she considered anxiously, “lest she should conceive a fresh access of ill-will,—I think she was minded to let me alone after the attack,—and seek to poison or throttle me. Mrs. Kitty will never permit that,” she decided, in great trepidation, “though I’ve annoyed her; but she is in her senses, and looks to be Mrs. Die’s keeper. My uncle could not know me in bodily peril, and sit and lean back in his chair, and look into the air above my head.” Thrilling with this new, outrageous apprehension, which, yet in its panic, served to divert the young mind from its desolation, Lady Bell did Mrs. Die’s bidding with the utmost dispatch, put on her hat and habit, and hurried back to the parlour. Mrs. Die, in her hat and habit, was not so crazy looking, and was more like a lady of birth and breeding, than she had been in her morning gown. She directed the horses—there was usually no lack of horses at St. Bevis’s—to be brought to the door, and ascertained that Lady Bell was fit to guide the pony allotted to her, while Mrs. Kitty was mounted double behind a groom. “Sneyd may come with us if he likes, and is not frightened for his master; or Greenwood may attend,” Mrs. Die said condescendingly. “It is a mighty queer expedition, just like Mrs. Die,” murmured the last—the chaplain, who had come out under the colonnade to see the party start; “but I’ll ride after you to see that justice is done, and for the sake of the young lady,” he whispered to Mrs. Kitty. “If you don’t come for the sake of the old one, I think you had better let it alone, sir,” Mrs. Kitty rebuffed him shortly. It was a ride of an hour and a half for the party, with half-a-dozen dogs at their heels, to reach the country town where the quarter sessions were held. Mrs. Die gave no sign of knowing anybody, either among the country people in great coats trudging to market, or the smarter townspeople lounging by the low-browed shops and tall brick houses, though countrymen and tradesmen, with their womenkind, saluted and turned to stare at the group.