'Yes, dear; that is if Silas allows me; and I'm sure he will,' she added hastily, seeing, I suppose, my terror in my face. 'All I can do, you may be sure I will, and perhaps he will allow you to come to me, now and then, for a short visit. You know I am only six miles away--little more than half an hour's drive, and though I hate Bartram, and detest Silas--Yes, I _detest Silas_,' she repeated in reply to my surprised gaze--'I _will_ call at Bartram--that is, I say, if he allows me; for, you know, I haven't been there for a quarter of a century; and though I never understood Silas, I fancy he forgives no sins, whether of omission or commission.' I wondered what old grudge could make my cousin judge Uncle Silas always so hardly--I could not suppose it was justice. I had seen my hero indeed lately so disrespectfully handled before my eyes, that he had, as idols will, lost something of his sacredness. But as an article of faith, I still cultivated my trust in his divinity, and dismissed every intruding doubt with an exorcism, as a suggestion of the evil one. But I wronged Lady Knollys in suspecting her of pique, or malice, or anything more than that tendency to take strong views which some persons attribute to my sex. So, then, the little project of Cousin Monica's guardianship, which, had it been poor papa's wish, would have made me so very happy, was quite knocked on the head, to revive no more. I comforted myself, however, with her promise to re-open communications with Bartram-Haugh, and we grew resigned. I remember, next morning, as we sat at a very late breakfast, Lady Knollys, reading a letter, suddenly made an exclamation and a little laugh, and read on with increased interest for a few minutes, and then, with another little laugh, she looked up, placing her hand, with the open letter in it, beside her tea-cup. 'You'll not guess whom I've been reading about,' said she, with her head the least thing on one side, and an arch smile. I felt myself blushing--cheeks, forehead, even down to the tips of my fingers. I anticipated the name I was to hear. She looked very much amused. Was it possible that Captain Oakley was married? 'I really have not the least idea,' I replied, with that kind of overdone carelessness which betrays us. 'No, I see quite plainly you have not; but you can't think how prettily you blush,' answered she, very much diverted. 'I really don't care,' I replied, with some little dignity, and blushing deeper and deeper. 'Will you make a guess?' she asked. 'I _can't_ guess.' 'Well, shall I tell you?' 'Just as you please.' 'Well, I will--that is, I'll read a page of my letter, which tells it all. Do you know Georgina Fanshawe?' she asked. 'Lady Georgina? No.'