"But I suppose there must be some good people in so large a place as London?" said Winifred, doubtfully. "Yes, to be sure, child, a plenty of them. Even in the court itself, bad as it was. There was Mrs. Godolphin, a saint if ever there was one, and Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn, better people could not be; and as for Mrs. Macy, their daughter, she was too good to live. O yes, no doubt there are good people everywhere, but yet there is a terrible deal of wickedness in great cities, such as we know nothing about here. For my part, I could wish there was no such place. I did hope to spend the rest of my days among the green fields, and to live and die in the country, but God's will be done! No doubt He knows best!" "It is hard to think so always," said Winifred. "Well, sweetheart, it is a comfort that He does know best, and will go on in His own way, whatever we poor mortals may think of His doings. But now you must go up to my lady, and while you are gone, I will put a few stitches just to help you along, and give you something to look at for a guide." Winifred found Lady Peckham in her dressing-room, which was all in a litter with mails and boxes. Lady Peckham was seated at her cabinet, looking over and destroying letters and papers. As Winifred looked around the usually pleasant and orderly apartment, as she remembered the delightful hours she had spent there, and thought how soon it would be shut up and deserted, the tears swelled to her eyes again, and she wished, with Mrs. Alwright, that there were no such place as London in the whole world! "Well, Winifred, I suppose you have heard all the news from Mrs. Alwright?" said Lady Peckham, kindly. "Yes, my lady." "I have a message for you from my brother," said Lady Peckham, taking a letter from her pocket. "He says, 'Tell my little Winifred that I think of her, and I hope she remembers me, at least in her prayers.'" Winifred felt that there was little danger of her forgetting, but she knew that she should break down utterly if she tried to speak, so she courtesied, and remained silent. "Come hither to me, Winifred," said Lady Peckham. Winifred obeyed, not by any means sure that she had not incurred a reproof in presuming to shed tears before such a great lady. She was mistaken. "My poor child! My dear, faithful little friend!" said Lady Peckham, and presently, to her astonishment, Winifred found herself drawn into my lady's arms, and crying on her shoulder as freely as if it had been her own mother. "You are very dear to me, Winifred," said my lady, presently, in a low voice. "I have always been fond of you, both for your own sake and that of a dear friend whom you much resemble. I have envied your mother the possession of such a daughter, but the events of the last few weeks have made me feel toward you more like an elder sister."