Before her, at some little distance on the path, went the three daughters of the village doctor; and, though well and becomingly attired, there was nothing in their appearance to warrant the reproach Lady Dorothea had cast upon their style of dress. It was, indeed, scrupulously neat, but simple. The eldest was a girl of about sixteen, with all the gravity of manner and staid expression that belongs to those who stand in the light of mothers to younger sisters. The housekeeper of her father's little home, the manager of all within its humble household, his secretary, his companion, Ellen Cloves had acquired, while little more than a child, the patient and submissive temper that long worldly trial confers. They lived perfectly to themselves; between the society of the castle and that of the farmers around there was no intermediate territory, and thus they passed their lives in a little circle of home duties and affections, which made up all their world. Mary Martin had often wished it in her power to show them some attentions; she was attracted by their gentle faces and their calm and happy demeanor. Had her aunt permitted, she would have frequently invited them to the castle, lent them books and music, and sought companionship in their intercourse. But Lady Dorothea would not have heard of such a project; her theory was that familiarity with the peasant was so far safe that his station was a safeguard against any undue intimacy; while your half-gentry were truly perilous, for if you condescended to civility with them, they invariably mistook it for a friendship. Dr. Cloves dined every Christmas-day at the great house; but so did Mr. Scanlan and all the other heads of departments. It was a very grand and solemn festival, where neither host nor guest was happy; each felt that it was but the acquaintance of an hour, and that with the moment of leave-taking came back all the cold reserve of the day before. “Good-morning, Miss Cloves; good-day, Jane, and little Bessy,” said Mary, as she overtook them. “Good-morning to you, Miss Martin,” said Ellen, blushing with surprise at seeing her alone and on foot. “I trust the doctor is not ill? I don't see him with you,” said Mary, anxious to relieve her momentary embarrassment. “Papa has been sent for to Knocktiernan, Miss Martin. They 're afraid that a case of cholera has occurred there.” “May God forbid!” ejaculated Mary, with deep emotion; “we have great distress and poverty around us. I hope we may be spared this scourge.” “It is what papa feared always,” rejoined Ellen, gravely; “that want and destitution would bring on the malady.” “Have you heard who it is is ill?” “Simon Hanley, the carpenter, Miss Martin; he worked at the castle once--” “Yes, yes I remember him; he made me my first little garden-rake. Poor fellow! And he has a large family. Your father will, I trust, have seen him in time. Knocktiernan is but four miles of a good road.”