The small number of women servants is scarce to be regretted, judging by the few there are. Though whether, indeed, these sluts should be judged at all as serving women I feel inclined to doubt; for no secret is made of the dairymaid and the laundress being the sultanas of Uncles Simon and Gwyn, with whom they often sit to meals; while the little waiting wench at first allotted to me was too obviously courted by the oaf Evan to be kept in my service. Uncle Hubert had indeed thought it needful to explain to me that the gentry of these parts all live worse than heathens, and has attempted (but the subject gave me little satisfaction) to confirm this by the _chronique galante_ of the neighbourhood; 'tis wonderful how quick the man is at taking a hint, and adapting his views to his listeners', at least to mine. To come back to the maids, if such a name can be applied here, I find the only reputable woman in the castle (her age, and something in her manner give her a claim to such an adjective) is Mrs. Davies, the supposed housekeeper, who now attends on my (luckily very simple) wants. She was the foster-mother and nurse of my brother-in-law, the late Baronet; and 'tis plain there was no love lost betwixt Eustace and her. Indeed, I seem to guess she may have helped to make his infancy the sad and solitary one it was. Yet, for all this suspicion, and a confused impression (which I can't account for) that the woman is set over us to spy, I am bound to say that of all people here, not excepting Uncle Hubert here, Mrs. Davies is the one most to my taste. She has been notably beautiful, and despite considerable age, has an uncommon active and erect bearing; and there is about her harsh, dark face, and silent, abrupt manners, something which puts me at ease by its strength and straightforwardness. This seems curious after saying she has been _set to spy_; but 'tis my impression that in this heathenish country spying, aye, and I can fancy robbing and murdering, might be done with a clean conscience as a duty towards one's masters; and Hubert, and the memory of Sir Thomas, are the real masters, and not Eustace and I.... Will it always be so? Things look like it; and yet, at the bottom of my soul, I find a hope, almost an expectation, that with God's grace I shall clean out this Augean stable, and burn out these wasp's nests.... _October_ 29.