I could not have believed it was in the little man to look and speak as he did, with so much calmness and dignity. Even the allusion to his own family (which, he being a Cornishman, is, of course, a good deal older than Adam), sat gracefully enough upon him. My Lord was actually silenced, and had the grace to look ashamed. My Lady prevented any more words by rising from the table, and of course all of us did the same. As we passed out of the hall, I heard Lady Jemima say to my Lady: "Well, Sister Elizabeth, what think you of the storm your immaculate Mrs. Merton has raised? Is she not a fit person, to have charge of your daughter's education?" She spoke in the tone of sarcastic contempt, which she always uses to or about me. My Lady answered more sharply than I ever heard her speak: "It was yourself, Jemima, who raised the storm, as most storms in this house are raised, by your impertinent meddling. Margaret would not have spoken but for your drawing my Lord's attention upon her." "Oh, of course, it was all my fault," Lady Jemima began, but my Lady interrupted her: "It 'was' all your fault! You are constantly tormenting the child for no other reason than because she dares to have a mind of her own. But I have had enough of it; and have long borne with your impertinent interference in household affairs, your contradicting of my orders, upsetting my arrangements, and taking the words out of my mouth at mine own table: but I will have it no longer. The next time you make such a piece of mischief, you leave the house, or I do!" "Well, I must say!" Lady Jemima began. But my Lady cut her short: "I will hear no more!" said she, sharply. "I am wearied and fretted to death now. Margaret, why do you not go to the nursery?" I might have said that I was only waiting for her to give me room to pass, but I saw well that my Lady was driven past her patience, and no wonder: so I courtesied and made my escape by the way of Mrs. Judith's room. I did not know what to do, for my Lord had bid me quit the house the next day, and I had nowhere to go. I had money enough owing me to take me home, but I knew not how to get there, and I had no friend to whom I could apply, unless it were the Bishop. I could hardly calm myself to think of anything for a time, but at last, by dint of walking in the gallery, which I did for an hour, and by schooling myself to do my usual reading, I found myself in a condition to consider matters quietly. I never felt any more unhappy in my life, and regretted twenty times that I had not stayed in the nursery with my child, but there was no use in that. Besides the disgrace which had been put upon me, and the triumph which that disgrace would afford to mine enemies, my heart was broken at the thought that I must leave my child to a stranger, just at the time when she was like to need me most, and have all my work for her undone.