"Oh, she does not care!" answered my Lord, carelessly. "She knows my ways. Sure 'tis no shame for a maiden to have admirers, especially when she is, as you truly say, so circumspect and prudent as Margaret. I verily think she cares more for Betty's little finger than for all of them." So all ended well. But, as I recalled the look that Lady Jemima bestowed upon me, I cannot but wonder whether she herself hath any thought of Walter. I am sure she hath something on her mind which makes her very unhappy. _October 1._ My Lady sent me down early this morning to ask Mrs. Corbet for a pattern. I found her rejoicing over letters from Walter, sent from about Illchester, where he had stopped a day to see some friends of Sir John Elliott's and his own. They were gravely cheerful, as usual, and there was one for me, which I put in my bosom unread. I dared not trust myself to read it under his mother's eye when I thought it might be, perhaps, the last of him that I should ever see. She asked me kindly of my health, and on my telling her that my head troubled me again, she pressed on me a little flask of distilled and rectified vinegar, very pungent and refreshing, as well as a bottle of some strong sweet water, wherewith to bathe my temples and forehead. If she knew what I know—but I am glad she does not. I should suffer none the less because she suffered the more. Coming home, I found the church door open, so I went in and spent a few minutes quietly in prayer, and in reading the ninetieth and ninety-first psalms. I wish it were the custom here, as they say it is abroad, to keep the church always open. Surely many, especially of the poor, who have no place of retirement at home, would gladly resort thither now and then for devotion. Methinks there is something in the very air of the place which disposes one to a quiet and worshipping frame of mind. When I got home, and could be alone, I read my letter—a long one, full of goodness and love—how precious none can tell. Oh, could I but certainly know that he was safe and well! Lady Jemima met me in the gallery, and after passing me, she came back and said, abruptly enough: "You have been down to Corby-End, I hear. Have they any news of Walter—of Mr. Corbet?" "His mother had letters this morning, written at Illchester, my Lady," I answered. "Mr. Corbet was well when he wrote, but the letters have been a long time on the way." "Aye, no doubt you know all about the matter!" said she, with a kind of scornful bitterness. Then with a sudden change of tone, "Margaret, tell me what you do to make everybody like you?" "I don't think I do anything, madam," I answered: "and besides every one does not like me. You yourself are my enemy, though I know not why, for I have never willingly or knowingly injured you: yet you are ready to believe every evil report about me, and to put the worst construction on all I say or do—or have done, for that matter."