Dick used to say that his religion made him happy, but I can't see how any one is to be happy, according to Mr. Penrose—working so hard, with all our failings noted and set down against us, and, hanging over all, the fear of final failure and its dreadful consequences. Yet, if it is true, of course one ought to know it. I must say it makes me very wretched, and I don't know what to do. My temper is so warm and my feelings so quick, that I am always saying and doing what I wish unsaid and undone; and sometimes, the more I try, the worse it seems to be with me. The very effort makes me feel fretful and impatient. I don't believe Mr. Corbet agrees with Mr. Penrose in his notions. I saw him several times glance at his mother, and slightly shake his head. Mrs. Corbet is a beautiful old lady—I think the most beautiful I ever saw. She must be past sixty a good deal, yet her eyes are bright and clear, and her hair unchanged. To be sure, it is so nearly silver in its natural color that a few gray threads would not show. She seems quite feeble, and, indeed, Mrs. Judith told me she had never been really well since the time of the riot, when she was struck down by a stone and otherwise maltreated. She spoke to me kindly, and said she would send me the parcel she had brought from my aunt, or perhaps bring it to me, as she meant to come to the Great House before long. Mr. Penrose came up with me as I was hurrying home, and asked me why I walked so fast? I told him I was in haste to return to Lady Betty. "The child seems to love you very much," said he. "And I love her," I returned. "Nobody could help it." "Yet you must find your life somewhat irksome," he went on to say. "Not at all!" I answered. "Why should I? 'Love makes easy service,' and besides she really gives me very little trouble, considering all her misfortunes. I knew what I was undertaking when I came, and it has not been so hard as I expected. Every one is kind to me, my Lady especially, and as for the rest, why it does not signify. ''Tis all in the day's work.'" "My lady is kind to every one, I think," said Mr. Penrose, to which I agreed. "'Tis a pity she has been so unfortunate with her children. If the next child should prove a girl, or should not live, Mr. Corbet will come to be lord of all." "So I suppose," said I, "but we will hope for better things." "Then you would not wish it?" he said, looking at me. "Wish what?" I asked. "That Mr. Corbet should be lord of all!" "Of course not!" I answered. "Why should I? Mr. Corbet is well enough off; beside that he is nothing to me, and my Lord and Lady have been my very good friends. I don't understand you at all—and it seems to me that you do not understand yourself, very well!" "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Merton, if I have offended you," was all his answer. Then, after a pause, "I suppose you were very much disappointed at seeing me in Doctor Parnell's pulpit?"