But it would not do; Tom Brice looked amused again, swung his head a little on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of the trees beside him, as if he were striving to keep himself from an uncivil fit of laughter. 'I'll do what a wise lad may, Miss; but ye don't know they lads; they bain't that easy come over; and I won't get knocked on the head, nor sent to gaol 'appen, for no good to thee nor me. There's Meg there, she knows well enough I could na' manage that; so I won't try it, Miss, by no chance; no offence, Miss; but I'd rayther not, an' I'll just try what I can make o'this; that's all I can do for ye.' Tom Brice, with these words, stood up, and looked uneasily in the direction of the Windmill Wood. 'Mind ye, Miss, coom what will, ye'll not tell o' me?' 'Whar 'ill ye go now, Tom?' inquired Meg, uneasily. 'Never ye mind, lass,' answered he, breaking his way through the thicket, and soon disappearing. 'E'es that 'ill be it--he'll git into the sheepwalk behind the mound. They're all down yonder; git ye back, Miss, to the hoose--be the side-door; mind ye, don't go round the corner; and I'll jest sit awhile among the bushes, and wait a good time for a start. And good-bye, Miss; and don't ye show like as if there was aught out o' common on your mind. Hish!' There was a distant hallooing. 'That be fayther!' she whispered, with a very blank countenance, and listened with her sunburnt hand to her ear. 'Tisn't me, only Davy he'll be callin',' she said, with a great sigh, and a joyless smile. 'Now git ye away i' God's name.' So running lightly along the path, under cover of this thick wood, I recalled Mary Quince, and together we hastened back again to the house, and entered, as directed, by the side-door, which did not expose us to be seen from the Windmill Wood, and, like two criminals, we stole up by the backstairs, and so through the side-gallery to my room; and there sat down to collect my wits, and try to estimate the exact effect of what had just occurred. Madame had not returned. That was well; she always visited my room first, and everything was precisely as I had left it--a certain sign that her prying eyes and busy fingers had not been at work during my absence. When she did appear, strange to say, it was to bring me unexpected comfort. She had in her hand a letter from my dear Lady Knollys--a gleam of sunlight from the free and happy outer world entered with it. The moment Madame left me to myself, I opened it and read as follows:--