“I mentioned it to Miss Cheriton,” I returned, somewhat nettled at this, for Gay had warmly approved of our little excursion. “Miss Cheriton is not the mistress of the house,” she replied, in the same galling tone. “If you had consulted me, I should certainly not have given my consent. I think a servant’s relatives are not proper companions for my little niece, and, indeed, I rather wonder at your choosing to associate with them yourself,” with a concealed sneer hidden under a polished manner. “Mrs. Markham,” I returned, speaking as quietly as I could, “I should certainly not have taken the children to Wheeler’s Farm without my mistress’s sanction. I had her free permission to do so; she knew the Sowerbys were highly respectable, and, for my own part, I wished to give pleasure to Hannah, as I take a great interest in her.” “I shall certainly write to my sister on the subject,” was her answer to this. “You must have entirely mistaken her meaning, and I owe it to her to watch over her children.” My temper was decidedly rising. “You need not trouble yourself,” I replied, coldly, “my mistress knows everything I do. I should have written to her myself to-night; she has perfect confidence in me, and I have never acted against her wishes; my conscience is quite clear about this afternoon, but I should not have taken Rolf without your permission.” “I should hope not,” still more haughtily, but I would not listen to any more; I was not her servant—I could not have served that hard mistress. I found nothing to reverence in her cold, self-absorbed nature, and without reverence, service would be bitter drudgery. As I passed down the avenue a little sadly, I came upon a pretty scene; a tea-table had been set under one of the elms, and Gay had evidently been presiding over it, but the feast had been long over. She was standing by the table now, crumbling sweet cake for the peacock. Lion was sitting on his haunches watching her, and Fidgets was barking furiously, and a little behind her stood Mr. Rossiter. Mrs. Markham swept up to them, and I could hear her say in a frosty voice that showed evident ill-temper, “Why has not Benson removed the things? It is nearly seven, and we must go in to dress for dinner; you know Mr. Hawtry is coming.” “I was not aware of it, Adelaide”—how well I knew that careless voice!—“but it is of no consequence, that I can see; Mr. Hawtry is always here.” “He cannot come too often,” in a pointed manner. “We all think highly of Mr. Hawtry, I know.” “Oh, are you going, Mr. Rossiter? Well, perhaps it is rather late.” “What are you doing, Gay?” so sharply that though I had reached the house I heard her, and turned my head to look. Benson and the under-footman were coming out of the side door, but Mrs. Markham stood alone under the trees. Gay was sauntering down the avenue with the young curate still at her side, and Lion was following them, and I wondered if Mrs. Markham saw her stop and pick that rose.