"We can make no move at present," replied Mrs. Deborah. "All we can do is to wait. My poor child, it is hard upon you, I know, but you must see that we must act, if at all, with great caution. Amabel is in her father's hands and under his roof, and we have no right to interfere, so long as she is not in actual danger. Take patience, my poor child, take patience. 'Tis the woman's medicine?" With that, I fell to crying again, and grew so hysterical that Mrs. Deborah made haste to put me to bed, and dose me with hartshorn. I was not given to such attacks, but I was overcome with grief and fatigue. I quieted myself as soon as I could, and after awhile I fell asleep, and awoke somewhat refreshed and composed. I lay a long time thinking over all that had happened. I did not see how I could have acted otherwise. Even had I dissembled with my lady, and promised to use my influence for her when I did not intend to do so, she would soon have found me out, for her eyes were everywhere, and her French waiting-maid was a ready and willing spy. No, I could not have done otherwise. For myself, as I said, I had no cares or fears. Mrs. Deborah would give me a home as long as I needed one, and so I did not doubt would Mrs. Brown, were it only to spite her brother's wife, and then there was Mr. Carey in Exeter. True, it was a long way off, but others had made the journey and why not I. Again, there was Mrs. Thorpe in Newcastle, and the old lady of Thornyhaugh. Oh yes, I had a plenty of friends. But Amabel! To have her so near me, and yet out of my reach, and beyond my help. It did seem to me that the thought was intolerable, and I cried aloud in my anguish. Then at last I betook myself to that place whither I should have gone at first. I laid my case before Him, who has promised to be the friend of the oppressed and the orphan, told Him all my woe, and besought His help. I laid my dear one at His feet, as a mother of old might have brought her suffering babe to the Lord Jesus, and besought Him to have a care over her. Having thus calmed myself, I arose, dressed, and went down to seek Mrs. Deborah. It was near evening, and the level sun was shining into the south and west windows and lighting up the low rooms. Mrs. Deborah had brought away so many of her own and Mrs. Chloe's personal matters, that the little sitting-room had a curiously familiar look, as we see in a dream a well-known place which we know to be the same, though it not in the least like the reality. Mrs. Deborah was sitting with her knitting as of old. She called me to a seat beside her, and seeing that I had no work, she opened a drawer, and took out something that carried me back to the old inn at Newcastle—Mrs. Chloe's bed-quilt knitting. "There child, you may work at that at odd minutes, if you like. It does very well to take up when you have nothing else to do, and I should like to see the quilt finished."