She is certainly stronger, and complains much less than she did, either because she really suffers less, or because she has more to think about, and so dwells the less on her own discomforts. She has not had a crying fit in a long time. I talk to her about all sorts of things—about the village and the poor people here and at home, and everything else I can think of to interest her. She was much delighted with my story of finding Dame Crump's sister in Goody Yeo, and in hearing of Gaffer Dean's jackdaw, which I forgot to mention in its place. She wished she could go down to see it. I wish she could. I wonder much whether she could learn to ride a donkey? _June 1._ Mr. Penrose is come back, but not Lady Jemima. He brought letters for my Lord and Lady from her, and one from Felicia to me—the most cordial I have ever had from her. Perhaps if we do not see each other for a year or two longer, we shall become quite intimate and friendly. Felicia, seems to have seen a good deal of Lady Jemima, and has much to say in her praise. Mr. Penrose has brought down some beautiful furniture for the chapel—candlesticks, vestments, and what not, and he is busy arranging them in order. He would have had me help him, but I could not leave Lady Betty, who has been ailing for two or three days, and is so restless at night that I have taken turn about with Mary to stay with her. She seems to get no sleep unless some one is sitting by her. I almost fancy she is afraid. _June 2._ I have found out what ails Lady Betty. Anne has been telling her ghost stories. I hardly ever let Anne stay with her. But Mary's mother-in-law that is to be, is sick, and she, like the good girl that she is, wants to take her share in nursing the old woman. Then old Brewster has also been ill, and my dear Lady has asked me to see that she had her medicine properly, and to attend to various little matters for her: so I have been much more away from my child than usual. Last night she was very restless, and started so at some strange sound, of which there are always plenty, that I asked her what was the matter. "I am afraid!" she replied. "Afraid of what?" I asked. She would not tell me at first, but at last I coaxed her. Anne has told her I know not what tale of the ghost of a knight who walks in the long gallery. He is called the Halting Knight, because he had one leg shorter than the other, and Anne says that when any misfortune is about to happen to the family, he walks up and down all night, wringing his mailed hands, and tossing his arms over his head. "There!" exclaimed the child, clinging to me. "Don't you hear it? Oh, what if he be come to presage the death of my mother!" I certainly did hear something like a halting step: and at another time I might have been afraid myself. But I saw how necessary it was to soothe Betty, who was trembling all over.