“I hope not—I’m sure I hope not, with all my heart. I would prefer that Gott should give up all hopes of ever rising any higher, than have him do this office. One never knows, Miss Anna, what is to happen in life, though I was as happy as a child when he was made sheriff. If my words have any weight with him, and he often says they have, I shall never let him execute Mary Monson. You are young, Miss Anna; but you’ve heard the tongue of flattery, I make no doubt, and know how sweet it is to woman’s ear.” Mrs. Gott had been wiping her eyes with one hand, and putting the key into the lock with the other, while talking, and she now stood regarding her young companion with a sort of motherly interest, as she made this appeal to her experience. Anna blushed ‘rosy red,’ and raised her gloved hand to turn the key, as if desirous of getting away from the earnest look of the matron. “That’s just the way with all of us, Miss Anna!” continued Mrs. Gott. “We listen, and listen, and listen; and believe, and believe, and believe, until we are no longer the gay, light-hearted creatures that we were, but become mopy, and sighful, and anxious, to a degree that makes us forget father and mother, and fly from the paternal roof.” “Will you have the kindness, now, to let me into the gaol?” said Anna, in the gentlest voice imaginable. “In a minute, my dear—I call you my dear, because I like you; for I never use what Gott calls ‘high flown.’ There is Mr. John Wilmeter, now, as handsome and agreeable a youth as ever came to Biberry. He comes here two or three times a day, and sits and talks with me in the most agreeable way, until I’ve got to like him better than any young man of my acquaintance. He talks of you, quite half the time; and when he is not _talking_ of you, he is _thinking_ of you, as I know by the way he gazes at this very door.” “Perhaps his thoughts are on Mary Monson,” answered Anna, blushing scarlet. “You know she is a sort of client of his, and he has been here in her service, for a good while.” “She hardly ever saw him; scarcely ever, except at this grate. His foot never crossed this threshold, until his uncle came; and since, I believe he has gone in but once. Mary Monson is not the being he worships.” “I trust he worships the Being we all worship, Mrs. Gott,” struggling gently to turn the key, and succeeding. “It is not for us poor frail beings to talk of being worshipped.” “Or of worshipping, as I tell Gott,” said the sheriff’s wife, permitting her companion to depart. Anna found Mary Monson and Sarah walking together in the gallery, conversing earnestly. “It is singular that nothing reaches us from Michael Millington!” exclaimed the last, as Anna interlocked arms with her, and joined the party. “It is now near eight-and-forty hours since my uncle sent him to town.” “On my business?” demanded Mary Monson, quickly.