She has several times lately said things of this kind, which led me to think that she herself believes she will not live long. I cannot help feeling the same myself. Nobody ever sees a fault in her now—not a pettish word or look ever escapes her, and instead of thinking all the time of herself, as she used to do when I first came here, all her care is for other people: and she never loses a chance of pleasing and helping those around her. She is much interested in her aunt's scheme of the orphan-house, and has tried to work for it by hemming sheets and napkins, and the like, but she can sew and knit only for a few minutes at a time, because of the pain in her shoulder. I fear she will soon leave us. And yet why should I say fear? 'Twould be a blessed change for her, and I am sure she is ripe for it. I have been to Exeter with my Lady Jemima, to see her house there, and help her choose matters for her housekeeping. The place is called, in the neighborhood, "Lady House," and was once a small convent of gray nuns. It is in good repair and mostly well furnished, and there is a gallery with cells on each side, which she will fit up as bed-rooms for her older girls. She will have a nursery for the young ones, and is looking about for a suitable nurse for them. I think she will take the oldest girl in Lady Rosamond's school, who is good, and, steady, and understands spinning and knitting, as well as all sorts of needlework, coarse and fine. We stayed at the palace, and I think Mrs. Hall, the Bishop's lady, has quite overcome in her mind her old prejudice against married clergymen. She was remarking to me on the beautiful order and peace of the household—the servants so well behaved and attentive, and so happy each in his or her own place—the maids trained so as they may make good wives and mothers, and carefully instructed in religion by Mrs. Hall herself; the children so well bred and restrained, yet withal so cheerful, and on such happy terms of respect and intimacy with both father and mother. I ventured to say to her: "Do you think the Bishop would be a happier or a better man if he were condemned to a lonely, solitary life, with no home, and no wife or children to cheer him after his labors? And is he not better prepared to sympathise with both the joys and sorrows of his flock, from having experienced some of the same?" "Maybe so!" said she, and then presently she sighed—a very deep, sorrowful sigh, methought I knew well enough what she was thinking of.