"Then you need not have asked such a question," returned the lady sharply. "I hate people who are always dragging religion in by the head and shoulders, reminding one of everything dismal that one wishes to forget. Commend me to a preacher like yourself, Mr. Cheriton, who gives us good moral discourses that don't make one uncomfortable. I hate the Methodists, with their rant and pretence of spirituality, and what not, and I hope if the preachers come here again, they will get a warm reception. Gentlemen, if you have finished your tea, we ask to be excused, as I propose to take my young friends to the theatre this evening." The gentlemen took their leave on this hint, and Mrs. Bunnell also withdrew. Sir John's man came and carried him off, and we were left alone with my lady. "Bunnell is a good creature, and devoted to me," said her ladyship, when we were by ourselves, "but I think I shall have to let her go if she keeps on with her high-flown notions. I told her the other day that she might be content to let Mr. Cheriton think for her in such matters; and what do you suppose she answered me? Why, that as Mr. Cheriton could not be saved or lost for her, she must needs think for herself. But come, it is time we were going. See, here is a fan apiece for you," pulling out a handful from a box; "take your choice." "But, madam, I think we should be going home," said Amabel. "It is growing dark." "Nonsense, child! You are going to the play with me, and then I will set you down at home, or bring you back here, if it is too late. Nay, not a word," with an imperative gesture, as Amabel would have spoken. "You are in my hands, and must do as you are bid." She left the room for a few moments, and Amabel turned to me. "What shall we do?" said she. "Oh, how I wish we had never come." "It was all my fault," I answered: "but I don't see how to help it now; we cannot find our way home alone, through this great town, especially as it is growing dark. If Mrs. Thorpe wanted us, she would send for us." "True!" said Amabel. "She knows where we are, and could send Timothy for us." She had done so, we found afterwards, but we were not told of it. "We must do as my lady bids us, till we can get away; but Lucy! I do not like her, nor this place." "Nor I!" I answered. "I feel as if we had got into the hands of the fairy Melusene, that Mother Prudentia told us of. I have not seen one person who seemed real to me, except that nice Mrs. Bunnell—and Mr. Cheriton." My lady returned at this moment, so we had no chance for any further conversation. We went with her to the play; I don't remember what it was, and indeed, there was such a buzz of conversation, and the lights and music so bewildered me, and gave me such a headache, that I had much ado not to burst out crying. I was thankful enough when the evening concluded.