"Here hath been Sir Thomas Fulton's chaplain telling me that David Lee holds a conventicle at his house, and urging me to prosecute him. But I wont do it!" said my Lord, with an oath, and striking the table with his hand, as his wont is when excited. "Old David is an honest fellow, and his family have been good friends to me and mine these hundreds of years, and I wont interfere with him for any parson of them all. Let him manage his family his own way—and sing psalms through his nose, if he likes. What do I care?" "But you ought to care, and to act too, so long as he breaks the laws, brother!" said Lady Jemima, sharply. "Why else are you a magistrate and Lord of the Manor, save to execute the laws?" "You think so, do you?" said my Lord, turning short round on her. "Suppose somebody chooses to bring up the laws, of which there are plenty, against Popish ornaments and books, and after spying into your closet, should come to me with a complaint against you. Should I be bound to execute the laws therein?" "That's a very different matter!" answered Lady Jemima, looking a good deal discomfited. "The Archbishop sanctions those things." "The Archbishop does a good many things which he would find it hard to answer, if he were brought before a court of law—as he may be, sometime or other," said my Lord. "Here is Walter writes me from London that the Puritan party is gaining strength every day, and the people cry out on all sides for a Parliament, and no wonder. It is twelve years since we had one, or nearly that. And, by the way, Wat himself had a narrow escape. He was set upon by highwaymen, not far from Salisbury, and came near coming by the worst. Had you heard of that, Margaret? You were down at Corby-End this morning, I think." I answered quietly that I had heard the story. "And why didn't you tell it, then?" demanded my Lord, with some impatience. "Think you nobody but yourself hath any right to news of Walter?" "My Lady was not well this morning," I answered. "I thought the news might perhaps disturb her." My Lord smoothed his brow. "You think of everything," said he. "You are a good girl, Margaret, and Wat might do worse, after all said and done," he added, as if speaking to himself. I don't know what I should have done, but that poor Lady Jemima made a diversion by fainting away, in her place, almost scaring my Lord out of his wits. "It will be nothing," I said, as I was loosing her boddice: "she is better already." "Do you think it was the story about Wat that upset her?" asked my Lord, like a marplot, as he is. "Not at all," said I (I fear it was a fib on my part). "She hath had these fits more than once lately. I think they come from going too long without eating. See, her color is coming back already." The poor lady opened her eyes and gave me a look of gratitude and woe, which went to my heart. I do wish she would be friends with me. But in ten minutes she was as cold and austere as ever.