"I will sit in yonder nook, dear mistress; I will not turn towards you, nor speak, nor breathe--you may fancy me a statue, so silent, so immovable will rest your little Barbara. Blanche and Bright-eye, and even that black wolf-hound, remain in the chamber, and why not I? Am I less faithful, or less thoughtful, than a dog? and would you treat me worse? Besides, dear lady, your wedding-clothes! There is not a satin or a silver robe, nor farthingale, nor cardinal--not a lone ostrich-plume, that is not of six fashions past! Good, my lady, if it is to be, you must wed as of a right becomes your high descent. My Lady Frances can well speak of this; and as there is no time to send to London now, her tire-women would help me to arrange the robes necessary upon such occasions." "Peace, Barbara! I mean to dress as well befits this bridal; so trouble not thyself as to the tiring; but go, my gentle girl, go, go." "And may I not crouch yonder, where so often I have read to you, and sung the little ballads that you taught me for pastime?" "Or those that poor Robin taught you? I wish that young man, Barbara, had a more settled way of life; for, despite his awkward form, there is much that is noble and elevated about him. However, make no haste to wed, and, above all, guard well your heart; keep a keen watch over your affections--ay, watch them, and pray, pray fervently, poor girl, that they may go to him who may have your hand." "They _shall_ go," said Barbara, rising to follow Lady Frances, who had abruptly left the chamber to conceal her tears; "I would not marry a king--I mean, madam, a governor--if I did not love him! Why should I?" "Why should you, indeed, my kind Barbara! There, go and tell your master, tell also Sir Willmott, that I have much to do and much to think upon; so that to-day they must excuse my absence. It is an awful thing this marriage--an unknown, or at least uncharted course to enter on;--to virgin minds," she murmured, as her faithful attendant left the room, "at all times full of doubts, ay, even when love is pilot and the fond soul brim-full of hope. I too, who had such dreams of happiness, of good and holy happiness--the interchange of kindness, the mutual zeal, the tender care--the look, so vigilant and gentle, so full of pure blandishment--the outpouring of thoughts on thoughts--the words, so musical because so rich with the heart's truth; and so I fancied love and its fulfilment, marriage. Well knew I of the contract: yet still I dreamed and hoped, yes, slept and dreamed; but to be awakened thus--to such unutterable horror! Thank God, my mother is in heaven!--that is the solitary drop of comfort in my life's poison-bowl.--My mother's death a comfort! Alas, alas!" She covered her face with her hands, and we draw the Grecian painter's veil over the contending feelings it would be impossible adequately to portray.