"I thank you heartily, Mrs. Margaret Merton, for what you have done for the child, and you shall find that I do. I could not have thought such a change would be wrought in so short a time. It was a good day, as my Lady says, that brought you to us. Only mind," he added, relapsing into his usual manner, "mind you teach her none of your new-light notions. I will not have her made a Puritan, no, not if she never sets foot to ground again." "What is a Puritan, papa?" asked Lady Betty. "A Puritan, child? How shall I tell you? A Puritan is one who sings naught but Psalms through his nose, and wears his hair cropped close, and is always turning up his eyes, and hates king and church, and thinks a play-book, or a romance, or a dance round the May-pole, worse than the devil himself." "Then I am sure Margaret is not a Puritan!" said Betty, eagerly. "For she sings me all sorts of merry songs, and not through her nose at all, and she has beautiful long hair, almost down to her feet, and she makes me say a prayer for the king and queen every day. And she is teaching me the Catechism, and she does not hate all romances or play-books, for she has 'The Faerie Queene,' and some of Mr. Shakespeare's plays in her room, and she read one to me, all about Puck and Titania, and some poor men that played a play before the Duke—what is its name, Margaret?" "'The Midsummer Night's Dream,'" I told her. "And she can dance beside, for she showed me how her mother taught her to dance the Corants," continued Betty, eagerly. "So, you see, she cannot be a Puritan!" "Argued point by point, like a good advocate," said my Lord, laughing. "Well, well, child, you do well to speak up for your friend. I dare say it is all nonsense what your aunt says." And with that he bade us good morning, and went on his way whistling. _August 1._ Dear good Doctor Parnell died this morning, just at sunrise. He has been ailing for some days, but it was only yesterday that they thought him near his end. Mr. Corbet and Mr. Penrose sat up with him all night. He did not sleep much, but spoke many times, sometimes of his sister, whom he solemnly commended to Mr. Corbet's care, sometimes of the parish, and again of the joys of heaven, where he seemed, Mr. Penrose said, to feel himself already translated. He thought of everybody, and even sent me, by Mr. Penrose, his parting blessing, and a little book of devotions. He died just as the sun was rising, commending his soul to God, without any appearance of fear or anxiety. Mr. Penrose, telling me the story, was affected even to tears, and I wept with him, feeling that I had lost a friend. I went down to-day to bid him a last farewell, and to see Mistress Parnell. She is as it were stunned by the blow. She said to me: