Of course the beds did not always want making; but more than once after an encounter with Mrs Luttrell upon some domestic question, where it was all mild reproof on one side, acerbity on the other, Thisbe had been known to go up to the best bedroom, drag a couple of chairs forward, and relieve her mind by pulling the bed to pieces, snatching quilt and blankets and sheets off over the chairs, and engaging in a furious fight with pillows, bolster, and feather bed, hitting, punching, and turning, till she was hot; and then, having thoroughly conquered the soft, inanimate objects and her own temper at the same time, the bed was smoothly re-made, and Thisbe sighed. "I shall have to part with Thisbe," Mrs Luttrell often used to say to husband and daughter; but matters went no farther: perhaps she knew in her heart that Thisbe would not go. The beds had all been made, and there had been no encounter with Mrs Luttrell about any domestic matter relating to spreading a cloth in the drawing-room before the grate was blackleaded, or using up one loaf in the kitchen before a second was cut. In fact, Thisbe had been all smiles that morning, and had uttered a few croaks in the kitchen, which she did occasionally under the impression that she was singing; but all at once she had rushed upstairs like the wind in winter when the front door was opened, and to carry out the simile, she had dashed back a bedroom door, and closed it with a bang. This done, she had made a bed furiously--so furiously that the feathers flew from a weak corner, and had to be picked up and tucked in again. After this, red-faced and somewhat refreshed, Thisbe pulled a housewife out of a tremendous pocket like a saddle-bag, threaded a needle, and sewed up the failing spot. "It's dreadful, that's what it is!" she muttered at last, "and I'm going to speak my mind." She did not speak her mind then, but went down to her work, and worked with her ears twitching like those of some animal on the _qui vive_ for danger; and when Thisbe twitched her ears there was a corresponding action in the muscles about the corners of her mouth, which added to the animal look, for it suggested that she might be disposed to bite. Some little time afterwards she walked into the drawing-room, looking at its occupant in a soured way. "Letter for you, Miss Milly," she said. "A note for me, Thisbe?" And Millicent took the missive which Thisbe held with her apron to keep it clean. "Mr Bayle give it me hissen." Millicent's face grew troubled, and Thisbe frowned, and left the room shaking her head. The note was brief, and the tears stood in Millicent's eyes as she read it twice. "_Pity me. Forgive me. I was mad_." "Poor boy!" she said softly as she refolded it and placed it in her desk, to stand there, thoughtful and with her brow wrinkled.