"_Break their teeth, O God, in their mouths. Break out the great teeth of the young lions._" "Dear me," said Margaret, in her pillows; "how dreadfully uncomfortable." "Not asleep yet?" asked the old woman, reproachfully. "Not asleep yet"; Margaret uttered a quivering sigh. "Please, dearest, draw all the curtains back. If I could see the windows, I wouldn't think I was in the grave--that would be better." Miss Temple laid her Bible reverently aside; then moving slowly across the room, drew back the curtains. The wreck of Whitehall had shattered all the glass, and now the windows were filled with oiled paper. The scarlet glare of the night shone fiercely in, the wind of the fire roared like a storm at sea. Miss Temple came back to her place, and our Lady reached out one shaking hand to feel a little comfort from her touch. "Dearest," she whispered, "do you believe in ghosts?" "We are forbidden," answered the governess, "to have any dealings with the departed." "Hush, dearest; there's no need to be rude to these poor spirits, wrenched so suddenly from their bodies, taken all by surprise, shy at appearing undressed as it were, and they come here to see if their Queen cares. They come and go all night long, my dead; and they would think me so heartless if they found me asleep. I must not speak to them--that would be wrong--but they may hear me telling you that I care--I care--I care, and they will tell all the dead that I care." "Child," said Miss Temple, fearfully, "don't think of such things. It's horrible." "That they should die, and I not even mourn? You wouldn't have me a coward, dearest, would you? If I didn't care, if I didn't mourn, why all these millions of the dead would come to haunt me, to accuse me. Am I not guilty of their blood!" "You saved the honour of England." "And at what a price! What is the honour of England! It's like some awful heathen god, whose altar runs with blood, the blood of innocent men, and women like you and me, and little children. How can you talk of our honour! I wish--how I wish--if I had only known. If it were all to do again I'd let Ulster sell us body and soul to Russia, drag our honour in the mud, set up our shame where every one could see, and call the shame salvation. Yes, I would rather marry Alexander, or be torn to pieces, or burned at the stake, than pay the price of honour." When Miss Temple needed guidance, it was her custom to open her Bible, take a passage at random, and then with fiendish ingenuity twist the text into agreement with her own views. From the most unpromising materials she got the most surprising results. Now the pages fell apart in II. Samuel, and when her eye lit upon "_Elhanan the son of Dodo_," with a small local directory to follow, she felt rather ill-used. Turning resentfully, she came upon the pedigree in I. Chronicles. She had to fall back on general principles, and flashed her indignant eyes on Margaret.