I am quite sure of one thing—namely, that Lady Jemima hath somewhat against me, and that ever since she returned from London. She treats me with studied coldness and indifference, never comes to my room, as she used to do, to ask me about my reading and my devotions, nor stops to chat in the hall, or the gardens. My Lady is just the same, but my Lord, I fancy, looks coldly on me, and throws out hints against Puritans, &c. Even Mr. Corbet does not come to see his cousin as often as he used to do. I cannot understand it, for I am sure I have done nothing to merit displeasure. Mr. Penrose alone is unchanged, and we have really had some pleasant talks together. He preaches every week in the chapel—sometimes very well, too—and I go to hear him, but I know not how it is, the more I hear, the more discouraged and downhearted I grow. I feel downright rebellious, sometimes. Mr. Penrose says it is fitting we should go mourning all our days on account of our sins, thankful that we have so much as a chance of salvation, but not building too much thereupon, lest we fall short after all, and all our good works be as nothing. He ought to know. He is a clergyman, and a good one, but I cannot feel satisfied. _July 22._ Well, the murder is out—at least a part of it. Lady Jemima has treated me more and more coldly all the time. And yesterday, being in my Lady's antechamber, mending and arranging of some laces too fine for Brewster's eyes, I heard Lady Jemima come in by the other door, in earnest conversation with my Lady, and talking so loud, that though I made a noise to announce my presence, she did not seem to heed in the least. "You ought to send her away, Elizabeth!" I heard her say, in her emphatic way. "You ought not to keep her about the child a day longer!" "I shall certainly do nothing of the sort, till I see better cause than I have yet seen," replied my Lady. "Better cause!" repeated Lady Jemima, in that contemptuous tone of hers which always makes me angry, whether she speaks to me or not. "What better cause do you want than that the girl is a bitter Puritan—an Anabaptist, for aught I know, and will be sure to fill your child's mind with all sorts of poisonous notions about religion and government!" "But I have no evidence that she is so, Jemima, nor do I believe it. Margaret is regular, both at church and chapel. She is a clergyman's daughter, hath been well brought up, and the Bishop of Exeter told me himself that he thought I had made a happy choice. He saw Margaret at home, and was much pleased both with her and her brother." Now, for the first time, I discovered that they were talking about me, for at first I thought it was Mary they meant, and I wondered how any one could think of calling her a Puritan. I knew I ought not to hear more, and as I was considering for a moment what to do, I heard Lady Jemima say, contemptuously: