Bessie looked at her gravely, and brought her a bottle of _sal volatile_ from the dressing-table; but Olivia put it away with a faint laugh. “No, no; I am not so badly frightened as that,” she said; “but I did not expect to see any one, and”--with a piteous little smile--“I have grown nervous lately, Bessie.” “I am so sorry, miss,” said Bessie, meekly. “They told me to come upstairs and wait as usual----” “Yes, yes; quite right,” said Olivia, quickly, “and I am very glad to see you. Take your things off and let us have some tea. Have you come to say ‘good-by’ to me, Bessie?” and she smiled again. “No, not good-by, miss,” replied Bessie; “I’ve come to ask you to take me with you.” “To take you with me! Why----” “Yes, miss,” she went on, with downcast eyes, “I am going out into service, and I’ve come to ask you if you’ll engage me for your maid.” “Why, Bessie!” exclaimed Olivia, catching at her arm and drawing her toward her. “You are going out to service! I thought your father could not spare you?” “Yes, he can now, miss,” she said, as if she were repeating a well-rehearsed speech. “He has got my cousin Polly to keep house for him, and he wishes me to go out.” “It is wonderful!” said Olivia, more brightly than she had spoken for weeks. “And you came to me, of course! How good of you! Of course I will take you--and how gladly! Fancy you being my maid! Why, it is too good to be true! I nearly engaged a girl from Wainford yesterday--my old one went to-day. How glad I am I didn’t do so quite! And you only just made up your mind to go into service! How fortunate I am!” “It is me that’s fortunate, miss.” “And when will you come?” asked Olivia, eagerly. “Now, miss,” said Bessie, quietly. “I presumed so far as to bring my box, for he said I was to stay if you’d let me.” “You dear, thoughtful girl!” exclaimed Olivia, pressing her arm. “But who is ‘he’--your father? How kind----” She stopped short, noticing that Bessie’s face had suddenly grown crimson. “What is the matter? Who is ‘he’?” she repeated, fixing her lovely eyes on the girl’s downcast face. “Answer me, Bessie! Of whom do you speak?” “Must I tell?” whispered Bessie. “Certainly you must,” replied Olivia. “I don’t understand----” “It was Mr. Faradeane, miss,” said Bessie, in a low voice. Olivia drew her hand from the girl’s arm, and sank back in the chair. “Mr. Faradeane!” she said, almost inaudibly. Bessie dropped down beside her. “Yes, miss. It was he who brought me to think of it. He said he’d heard that your maid was going, and he said to me how nice it would be for you to have some one--he said some friend--with you in that big, new house of Mr. Bradstone’s, and he put it in my head to come and ask you. He knows how I love you, Miss Olivia! Nothing escapes him--he thinks of everything! Are you angry, miss?” she half-whimpered. Olivia put her hand from her forehead, and turned her face--it was very pale--to the girl.