She spoke in those clear silver tones of hers, which always commanded attention, and several people turned to look at us. As may be guessed, I was covered with confusion, but I made shift to answer. "You certainly owe me no thanks, Betty, for what I never did. I knew nothing of your affairs, and therefore could not betray them, had I been so inclined." "Oh, I beg your pardon!" said she, with her mocking, superior smile. And then presently to me in a kind of stage aside which every one about us could hear— "What is the use of keeping up that stale pretence? I suppose you did what you thought right, and I don't blame you; but why deny what you and I know to be true?" To this I made no answer whatever, and my lady presently called upon me to sing. I by and by saw Betty in close conference with Mrs. Bernard, and I had no doubt from the looks Martha cast at me that I was the subject of their conference. The next day brought home my lord's son, whom I had not yet seen. He had been travelling abroad for some years, but meeting the news of his sister-in-law's approaching marriage in London, he had hurried home to be present on the occasion. He was a fine, grave, soldierly-looking young man, and very much like Andrew in the face, though taller and with much more of courtly grace in his manner. He was warmly welcomed by all, and especially by Mrs. Bernard. I never saw her soften so much toward any one, and, indeed, I believe he was the only person she ever really loved. He was very polite and kind to me, and I naturally liked him because he was so much like Andrew. He was musical, like all his family, and we sang together a good deal. One morning, as we were practising a song together, Betty peeped into the room. I believe she thought I did not see her, for she slipped out and presently returned with my lady, whom I have no doubt she brought on purpose. They stood listening a few minutes, and then Betty said half under her breath, and with a sigh— "Ah, my poor brother, I see his cake is dough; but no doubt it is all for the best." We stopped singing at this, and my lady asked me with some sharpness whether I had been at the school that morning. I told her no, and she at once thought of errands for me, both there and at the village, which would keep me busy all the morning. "I will walk with you, cousin," said my young lord. "I want to go down to the Cove and see Will Atkins." Certainly, my lady had not mended matters for herself or me. I got rid of my cousin as soon as I could, telling him that I should be a long time at the school-house, and after that had some poor people to visit. He was rather unwilling to leave me, but I insisted, and he had to yield.