“Tell me, tell me!” she cried, grasping his arm. “There is nothing to tell, my good woman,” he said, and turned away. She fell back a step, and opened the door which she had held closed behind her. Her face would have been a study to any painter. Deep mortification and wounded feeling were in it--tears had come to her eyes. Edgar noticed nothing of all this, because he was fully occupied with his own affairs, and had no leisure to think of hers; and had he noticed it, his perplexity would have been so intense that he could have made nothing of it. He stood, not looking at her at all--gone back into his own thoughts, which were engrossing enough. “Ay,” she said, “that’s true--I’m but your good woman--no your friend nor your equal that might be consulted. I had forgotten that.” But Edgar had given her as much attention as he was capable of giving for the moment, and did not even remark the tone of subdued bitterness with which she spoke. He roused himself a little as she retired from him. “I hope you are comfortable,” he said; “I hope no one annoys you, or interferes. The woman of the house----” “There she is,” said Mrs. Murray, and she made him a solemn little curtsey, and was gone before he could say another word. He turned, half-bewildered, from the door, and found himself face to face with Sally Timms, who felt that her opportunity had come. “I don’t want to be disagreeable, sir,” said Sally, without a moment’s pause. “I never was one that would do a nasty trick. It aint your fault, nor it aint her fault, nor nobody’s fault, as Jinny is there. But not to give no offence, Squire, I’d just like to know if I am ever going to get back to my own little ’ouse?” “I am very sorry, Sally,” Edgar began, instinctively feeling for his purse. “There’s no call to be sorry, sir,” said Sally; “it aint nobody’s fault, as I say, and it aint much of a house neither; but it’s all as I have for my little lads, to keep an ’ome. A neighbour has took me in,” said Sally; “an’ it’s a sign as I have a good name in the place, when folks is ready o’ all sides to take me in. And the little lads is at the West Lodge. But I can’t be parted from my children for ever and ever. Who’s to look to them if their mother don’t? Who’s to see as their faces are clean and their clothes mended? Which they do tear their clothes and makes holes in their trousers enough to break your heart--and nothing else to be expected from them hearty little lads.” “I will give you any rent you like to put on your house,” said Edgar, with his purse in his hand. “I wish I could make poor Jeanie better, and give you your cottage back; but I can’t. Tell me your price, and I will give it to you. I am very sorry you have been disturbed.”