Her parasol? Not being acquainted with the development of dress among female servants in England, I asked if she was a lady. There seemed to be no doubt of it in the man's mind. She was also, as Gloody supposed, a person whom he had never seen before. "How is it you are not sure of that?" I said. "Well, sir, she was waiting to be let in; and I was behind her, coming out of the wood." "Who let her in?" "Miss Cristel." His face brightened with an expression of interest when he mentioned the miller's daughter. He went on with his story without wanting questions to help him. "Miss Cristel looked like a person surprised at seeing a stranger--what _I_ should call a free and easy stranger. She walked in, sir, as if the place belonged to her." I am not suspicious by nature, as I hope and believe. But I began to be reminded of Lady Rachel already. "Did you notice the lady's dress?" I asked. A woman who had seen her would have been able to describe every morsel of her dress from head to foot. The man had only observed her hat; and all he could say was that he thought it "a smartish one." "Any particular color?" I went on. "Not that I know of. Dark green, I think." "Any ornament in it?" "Yes! A purple feather." The hat I had seen on the head of that hateful woman was now sufficiently described--for a man. Sly old Toller, leaving Gloody unnoticed, and keeping his eye on me, saw the signs of conviction in my face, and said with his customary audacity: "Who is she?" I followed, at my humble distance, the example of Sir Walter Scott, when inquisitive people asked him if he was the author of the Waverley Novels. In plain English, I denied all knowledge of the stranger wearing the green hat. But, I was naturally desirous of discovering next what Lady Rachel had said; and I asked to speak with Cristel. Her far-seeing father might or might not have perceived a chance of listening to our conversation. He led me to the door of his daughter's room; and stood close by, when I knocked softly, and begged that she would come out. The tone of the poor girl's voice--answering, "Forgive me, sir; I can't do it"--convicted the she-socialist (as I thought) of merciless conduct of some sort. Assuming this conclusion to be the right one, I determined, then and there, that Lady Rachel should not pass the doors of Trimley Deen again. If her bosom-friend resented that wise act of severity by leaving the house, I should submit with resignation, and should remember the circumstance with pleasure. "I am afraid you are ill, Cristel?" was all I could find to say, under the double disadvantage of speaking through a door, and having a father listening at my side. "Oh no, Mr. Gerard, not ill. A little low in my mind, that's all. I don't mean to be rude, sir--pray be kinder to me than ever! pray let me be!" I said I would return on the next day; and left the room with a sore heart.