I did not sleep till late—there seemed to be so many strange noises, the wind did so roar in the chimney and among the great trees; and when it fell, there was another sound which I could not understand—a kind of long, low roar, which rose and fell, but never wholly ceased. At last, my weariness overcame me, but it seemed as if I had not slept more than half an hour, when I was wakened by the loud, passionate crying of a child. I saw the sun was shining, and springing up, I hastened to dress. I had hardly done so, the child crying all the time, when there came a knock at the door, and some one hastily opened it. "I crave your pardon, mistress, but will you please come to my young Lady directly?" said a decent, kind-faced woman, who looked like a servant. "She has heard that you are come, and is determined to see you. Do make haste, before my Lord is waked by her noise." "I will come at once," said I. And I laid down my Bible, having read only one verse—"'Call upon me in the day of trouble, so will I hear thee.'" "Is that Lady Betty crying?" I asked, as the screams struck more loudly on my ear, upon opening the door. "Yes, she is in one of her takings, poor thing. Do pacify her if you can, for I can't, and that's the truth. You see her old nurse is lately dead, and she don't take to me yet." She opened, as she spoke, first a door covered with green baize, and then one of wood, and ushered me into a large, airy room. It was the finest I had over seen, except my Lady's, but I had no eyes for anything except the child who sat upright in the bed, her face red with passion, her poor little hands, as thin as bird's claws, clutching the bed hangings, as if she would pull them down, while she screamed at the top of her voice, like one distracted. "See here, Lady Betty! Here's a pretty young lady come to see you. Now be good, and speak prettily to her, wont you?" But Lady Betty only screamed out some inarticulate words. "There, see what you can do with her," said the maid, in a low voice. "I dare not go near her, that is the truth. She is like a wild-cat." I remembered how mother used to deal with me in my "tantrums," as Esther used to call them, and going up to the bed, I quietly sat myself down upon it, and looked at Lady Betty, without saying a word. At first she did not seem to notice me, but as I sat quite still and looked steadfastly at her, she presently ceased crying, and looked at me in a kind of wonder. "Who are you?" she asked. "I am Margaret Merton," I answered. "I have come to see you, but I can tell you no more till you stop crying." "I want my mother," she said, pitifully. "My Lady is not awake yet, I dare say," I answered. "I am sure you would not like to wake her with crying. That is not a pleasant way of being roused." I saw I had gained her attention. "Did I wake you?" she asked. "Yes, and I could not think at first where I was. I am not used to hear children cry." "Haven't you any children at your house?" she asked.