The girls had a certain strain of vulgarity in them somehow, which could not be quite eradicated from their speech. “I went out for a drive as usual,” said Lady Stanton. “I thought I heard you say that you meant to walk.” “Oh yes; we wanted to walk to the village to settle about the school children,” said Laura; and Lydia added, “But I am sure we never said so,” and looked suspiciously at her stepmother. “I went by the Langdale woods, and all the way to Penninghame water,” said the culprit, very explanatory. “The lake looked so cold. I should not like to live near it. It chills all the landscape, and I am sure puts dreary thoughts into people’s heads. And as I was there, Henry,” she added, addressing her husband, “I did what you will think an odd thing.” Lady Stanton’s bosom heaved a little, and her breath came quick. It would have been far easier to say nothing about it; but then she knew by experience that everything gets found out. She made a momentary pause before the confession which she tried to treat so lightly. “I ran in for a moment to the old Castle and saw Mary--Mary, you know. We were great friends, she and I, when we were young, and it was such a temptation passing the old place.” “What whim took you near the old place?” said Sir Henry, gruffly. “I cannot think of any place in the world that should lie less in your way.” “Well, that is true,” she said, breathing a little more freely now that the worst was told, “and the proof of it is that I have not been there for years.” “I hope it will be still longer before you go again,” said her husband. He did not say any more because of the servants, and because he had too much good sense to do or say anything that would lessen his wife’s importance; but he was not pleased, and this troubled her, for she had a delicate conscience. She looked at him wistfully, and was imprudent enough in her anxiety to pursue the subject, and make bad worse. “It is strange to see an old friend whom you have known when you were young, after so many years,” she said; “though Mary is not so much altered as I am. You remember her, Henry? She was always so pretty; handsomer than--any one I know.” It was on her lips to say “handsomer than ever I was,” which was the real sentiment in her mind--a sentiment partly originating in the semi-guilt and humility produced by the consciousness of having grown stout, a kind of development which troubles women. She was very deeply aware of this, and it silenced all the claims of vanity. She had lost her figure; whereas Mary was still slim and straight as an arrow. Whatever might have been once, there was now no comparison between the two. “Do you mean Miss Musgrave?” cried the girls, one after the other. “Miss Musgrave! that old creature--that old maid--that man’s sister?”