"To-morrow will be Sunday!" returned Charlotte. "I do not countenance Sunday travelling, if other days can be made use of," continued Lady Godolphin. "But there are cases where it is not only necessary, but justifiable; when we are glad to feel the value of those Divine words, 'The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath.' Fever has broken out again, and I shall make use of to-morrow to escape from it. We start in the morning." "I shall be ready and willing to go," replied Charlotte. "It has appeared at Lady Sarah Grame's," added Lady Godolphin, "one of the most unlikely homes it might have been expected to visit. After this, none of us can feel safe. Were that fever to attack Sir George, his life, in his present reduced state, would not be worth an hour's purchase." The dread of fever had been strong upon Lady Godolphin from the first; but never had it been so keen as now. Some are given to this dread in an unwonted degree: whilst an epidemic lasts (of whatever nature it may be) they live in a constant state of fear and pain. It is death they fear: being sent violently to the unknown life to come. I know of only one remedy for this: to be at peace with God: death or life are alike then. Lady Godolphin had not found it. "Will Mr. Hastings permit his daughter to travel on a Sunday?" exclaimed Mrs. Verrall, the idea suddenly occurring to her, as Lady Godolphin was leaving. "That is my business," was my lady's frigid answer. It has been said that she brooked not interference in the slightest degree. It certainly could not be called the business of Mr. Hastings. For the travellers were far away from Prior's Ash the next morning before he had received an inkling of the departure. CHAPTER VII. BROOMHEAD The contrast between them was great. You could see it most remarkably as they sat together. Both were beautiful, but of a different type of beauty. There are some people--and they bear a very large proportion to the whole--- to whom the human countenance is as a sealed book. There are others for whom that book stands open to its every page. The capacity for reading character--what is it? where does it lie? Phrenologists call it, not inaptly, comparison. There stands a man before you, a stranger; seen now for the first time. As you glance at him you involuntarily shrink within yourself, and trench imaginary walls around you, and say: That man is a bad man. Your eyes fall upon another--equally a stranger until that moment--and your honest heart flows out to him. You could extend to him the hand of confidence there and then, for that man's countenance is an index to his nature, and you _know_ that you may trust him to the death. In what part of the face does this index seat itself? In the eyes? the mouth? the features separately? or in the whole?