"When the Saviour put his hands on the blind man's eyes, and asked him if he saw aught, the man answered that he saw men as trees walking. He saw, it was true, but as yet nothing clearly. It needed a second touch before he saw things as they were. It may be so with you." She shook her head sadly. "I can never trust myself again," she said. "I would not try!" I answered her. "But you know whom you can trust—who will never fail those who seek Him. But, dear Lady Jemima, you are now in no fit state to judge of anything. You are wearied out with grief, and watching, and fasting, too, I dare say. Your hands are as cold as ice. Let me help you to bed, and get you some food, and when you have eaten and slept, you will be much better fitted to see and feel rightly." "Tell me one thing, Margaret," said she, taking my hands, "are you and Walter truly betrothed?" "We are," I answered her; "and my Lord hath given his consent." She made a movement, as if to draw her hand from mine, but refrained. "And you will soon be married, I suppose!" she added, after a pause. "I believe not," said I. "I promised my dear Lady before there was any likelihood of such good fortune befalling me that I would not leave Lady Betty for a year, whatever happened. And I mean to keep my word, unless I have more reason than I see now for breaking it." "How I have wronged you!" she said, sighing. "Margaret, there is hardly any evil that I have not thought of you." "You were prejudiced against me by one whom you might well have believed," said I. "I know not why Felicia hath always been mine enemy, except that it seems a part of her nature to have to hate somebody." "It was not that—not altogether!" said Lady Jemima. "It was—" "You shall tell me another time," said I, venturing to interrupt her; "that is, if you see fit to honor me with your confidence. I really think you ought to go to bed now, and rest, that you may be ready to see my Lady when she asks for you, and to make the house pleasant for my Lord." "I will do anything you tell me," she said, sadly. "Dear Lady Jemima, I don't mean to dictate!" I began to say, but she stopped me. "Yes, you shall dictate!" said she. "You shall command, and I will obey. It is fit that I should humble myself before you, aye, even in the dust—that I should be humbled in the eyes of all the world—if so I make any atonement for my sins." I could not let this pass. It seemed to me such a dreary notion, and at the same time such a false one, that I felt I must speak.