She colored deeply. "You are too free!" said she, austerely. "You forget yourself very much when you speak thus to me." "I beg your pardon, madam!" I answered. "I meant not to be so. You asked the question, and I answered it." "Well, well, let it pass!" she said, impatiently. "What is this I hear from my brother about Mr. Champernoun and yourself?" "I have heard nothing more about the matter," I replied. "I think it was only one of my Lord's jests. Mr. Champernoun hath never seen me except in church, and when the Bishop was here, and I have never so much as exchanged a word with him." "He is an excellent man, and it would be a match far above anything you have a right to expect," she continued: "and you might make yourself very useful as step dame to his little daughters. I advise you to accept his offer!" "Time enough for that when he makes it, my Lady!" I answered, laughing in spite of my vexation. "For me, I am quite content as I am for the present. I do not believe Mr. Champernoun ever thought of such a thing!" With which I made my escape. Betty's tame robin flew away this morning. She shed some tears at first, but finally said it was natural the poor bird should love the woods and fields best, adding, sadly enough, "I am sure I would fly away, if I could." "And leave me?" I asked. "No, I would take you with me!" she said. "And I would not fly away to stay either, but would come back after a while—after I had seen the world." "Perhaps your bird may come back," said I. And sure enough, at sunset, the little creature came pecking at the casement, and being let in, flew to his favorite place on Betty's shoulder, and showed great joy at seeing her again. I was as well-pleased as the child to see the truant return. I believe I had made a kind of omen of it. I dreamed last night of a great fall of snow, and telling my dream to Dame Yeo, she tells me that snow out of season means trouble without reason, and shows that I am or soon shall be fretting myself about some matter without cause. I am sure I hope it is so, but I am no great believer in dreams. _October 3._ This day brought me two letters, or rather three—one from Dick enclosing a note from dear mother. They are all well at home, though mother says there is fever in the place, and that two have died out of Robert Smith's family. She also tells me, what I am sorry to hear, that Sir Peter Beaumont hath prosecuted John Edwards for holding a conventicle in his house.