"I do not believe it will, and I do not want it to change," I answered. "I 'know' I shall never want to marry him." "But why?" asked the Bishop. "Because," I answered, "I know how I feel now. I like Mr. Penrose very well as a friend and neighbor, but the minute I think of marrying him, I perfectly hate him, and feel as though I would walk to the Land's End to get out of hearing of his name." "That would be going out of the river into the sea," said the Bishop, laughing again at my vehemence. "You would meet with plenty of Penroses between here and the Land's End. Ah, well! I see my poor chaplain's cake is dough, and though I like him well, I would not have it otherwise, so long as you feel so. I would not have you marry for interest, my maiden. Wedded life is a lovely and a holy thing where love is, but where it is not, there is confusion and every evil work. And then, you are but young to settle in life. I am sorry for Mr. Penrose, though. He is a good young man." "Indeed he is!" I answered, warmly. "And that made me so sorry to have this come up, because I liked him so well. And now we can be naught but strangers. I wish he would fall in love with somebody else." "'Tis not unlikely your wish may be gratified!" said my Lord, dryly. "But let him pass for the present. My Lady tells me that your little pupil has improved wonderfully under your hands, and that she is much pleased with your management." "I am very glad," I answered. "My Lady does me more than justice. I do not think that Lady Betty has learned so very much, but her health has improved, and with it her spirits and temper. She is so bright, 'tis but a pleasure to teach her." "And now for yourself," said the Bishop, with a penetrating, but kindly look. "How have you fared? Do you remember the promise I exacted from you that day in the church?" I told him that I had never forgotten it, and that I believed I had kept it every day; and added that I had read half through the volume he gave me. "That is well!" said he, seeming pleased. "And have you not found those things a help to you?" "They have been a help," said I, "and also a comfort. But I know not how it is, I seem to gain no ground, or what I gain one day I lose the next. I have tried to be good, indeed I have!" I continued, feeling the tears very near my eyes, but determined, if I could, to keep them back. "But I do not succeed, and I sometimes fear that I shall never reach heaven at last. When I first came here, Lady Jemima was very kind to me; and gave me rules about devotions and fasting, and so on. But I cannot keep to them because my time is not my own, nor my strength either, and my Lady was not pleased when I gave up my hour of recreation to sew on Lady Jemima's work for the poor. Then I am conscious of so many failings every day that I am afraid—" I had to stop here and look very steadfastly through the tears.