I turned away proudly--this worldly man might scorn these self-denying labors, which were to be all the pleasure of my life--but I only clasped them closer on that account. I called Alice to me again, and went on in silence. I persuaded myself how glad I was that I had encountered this clergyman; but in spite of my devotion to the work about which he seemed so anxious, I could not keep my mind from straying back to his name, and what he had said--Saville--Saville--it suddenly burst upon me--that was the name of the man who came with the boy Edgar to Cottiswoode, before we left it. I felt my face burn with indignation and displeasure--he called me his young relative--perhaps he was _that_ man's son, and a relation of Edgar Southcote. I thought it a new insult, that by any chance such a person as the first Saville should be related to me. Yet so strongly was I moved by my new sentiments, that, I think I made the strongest effort which I ever recollect making to put down this feeling. Yes, I had become enamored of mortification and self-abasement. I had my work to begin too, and what did it matter if this clergyman was Saville's son--what did anything matter to me? Was I not about to court humiliation and offer sacrifices--to forget my worldly comforts and delicate breeding--to wash the feet of pilgrims? and I was glad to find at the very outset a great unexpected mortification in my way. I walked along very rapidly beside Alice. She was anxious to speak to me--very anxious about myself--but I did not think of beginning my labors by doing what I could to lighten the kind heart of Alice. When we were returning, after visiting a woman whom Alice knew, and whom she arranged with--for though this might have been a very suitable beginning of my labors, I did not think of making it so, but was shy and stood aloof; we began at last to speak. Alice no longer understood or could deal with me; she hesitated and was timid, and never knew what to say in our conversations. I do not wonder at it--for when I look upon those days, I do not always find it easy to comprehend myself. We had just passed a group of young ladies. Three handsome, tall, well-dressed girls, evidently sisters, and full of talk and eager interest in something they were discussing. "Dear," said Alice, with a sigh, "if you had but had a sister, Miss Hester, or some good young lady to be company for you at Cottiswoode." "I want no company, Alice," said I. "You never knew what it was, dear," said Alice; "a friend is a great blessing and comfort, more than you think for. Couldn't you now, Miss Hester, darling, think upon some one to keep you company this dull winter? You'll be lone in the country, and nothing to amuse you--do think upon it, dear."