"That is too large a supposition for my poor imagination!" said I, smiling. "A poor plain parson's daughter, without beauty or dower, is not like to attract many suitors, I fancy. Besides, if I were as beautiful as Mrs. Corbet, or the Fair Dame herself, I see nobody." "You are like the princess in the fairy-tale, shut up in an enchanted castle!" said my Lady. "But you forget Mr. Penrose." "Oh, he is nobody—so far as that goes!" said I. "He looks down upon me as an ignoramus and person of no family, and besides, he thinks me a Puritan!" "What is a Puritan?" asked Lady Betty, coming up and leaning on my lap. "That is more than I can tell you, my dear," said I; "unless it is a person who likes clear glass better than painted windows, and carven oak better than scarlet cloth and embroidery." My Lady laughed and bade Betty see if she could find a clover with four leaves. When the child had set seriously about her search, she said to me, taking my hand, and speaking very earnestly: "Margaret, will you make me a promise?" "If I can, my Lady," I answered. "Promise me then that you will not leave Betty for at least a year, whether I live or die. In the latter case, I do believe the child would not be long behind her mother—certainly not,—" she said, with a strange look in her face—"if, as some say, the dead mother hath the power of calling the child after her. But promise me that you will remain with my child for at least a year." "I promise you, my Lady!" said I, as soon as I could speak. "I will not leave Lady Betty for a year, at least, unless I am sent away." "You may not find things always as pleasant as now," she went on to say. "My sister-in-law sometimes takes strange fancies, and she has great influence with her brother, though they are so very different. But promise me that you will not leave my child for at least a year, even," she added, "if the fairy prince should come for you!" "The fairy prince is not likely to come, unless, indeed, my poor dear father's ship should come home at last," said I. "But if he does, I shall send him about his business, my dear Lady. I am so glad you are pleased with me," said I, with a silly gush of tears, which, however, I could not help. I suppose because I am so weak still. She smoothed my hair with her lovely hands, and said many kind things, and I recovered myself presently, and begged her pardon. "Tut tut," said she, lightly. "Tell me about your father's ship." So I told her all about it, and how we feared it had been a total loss, and how my brother had been obliged to change all his plans, with much more—too much, I fear, for it was so pleasant to talk of home, and she listened so kindly, that I hardly knew when to leave off. _July 6._