We found a pleasant surprise awaiting us at our return. Betty's room had been cleaned, and all new hung with fresh, pretty tapestry, representing scenes from the Morte d' Arthur, and a little room next, hitherto used as a lumber-room, hath been cleared out and fitted up as a sitting-room for her and myself. Here I found standing a pretty carved spinning-wheel and a basket of fine flax, and Betty a still greater surprise—a beautiful little dog, as like poor Gill as two peas, which at our approach sprang from his cushion, and began fawning around her feet, and looking up in her face as though he would entreat her favor. Betty looked at him and then at me, and then stooping down to pat him, she burst into tears. "See how kind my Lord has been!" said I. "He told me he would get you another dog, if one could be found." "It was very good in papa, and it is a very pretty dog," said Betty, sobbing, "but I shall never love him as I did poor Gill." I did not think it worth while to argue that point, knowing that the dog would make his own way, but told her she should write a letter of thanks to my Lord. She took to the notion at once, and after some trouble made a very fair copy of a note of thanks, which I carried to my Lord at supper time. He was pleased, and said 'twas very well done, and a credit both to Bess and to me. "But did she really write it herself?" he asked. "Of course not," interrupted Lady Jemima. "I wonder you cannot see that 'tis all Mrs. Merton's own work, from first to last." "You are mistaken, madam," I answered. "I did indeed put the idea into Lady Betty's mind, but both words and handwriting are all her own. I never gave her any help, save to tell her how to spell the words." "And very well done it is," said my Lord; "and you may tell Bess I am heartily glad she likes the dog. And I thank you too, Mrs. Margaret, for taking so much pains with the child, as I believe you do. You must not mind if I am hasty now and then. 'Tis only my way." "I wonder you can be so deceived, brother!" said Lady Jemima. "Tut, tut!" he answered, more gravely than he is wont to speak. "I have eyes in my head, I warrant you. See you not that the words and the writing are all those of a child? But never mind her, Margaret," he added, relapsing into his usual careless tone. "She is in an ill-humor. She has dismissed her fine court suitor with a flea in his ear, and now she is sorry, as all women are when a lover takes them at their word—eh, Margaret?"