still,

Ford the stream, and climb the hill—

Love makes all things pleasant.

"There, now, I call that very pretty, my Lady," exclaimed Mistress Forest, as the last cadence died away; "and a very pretty sentiment at the end—'Love makes all things pleasant;' although, for my part, I know nothing about that, thank Heaven, and prefer to be my own mistress—that is, with the exception of your Ladyship, to obey whom is a labour of love. I am sure there are few husbands for whom I would give up such a service as yours, my Lady. I wish Mr What's-his-name—dear me, how stupid of me—ah, Derrick! It's rather a pretty name too; don't you think so, my Lady? I wish this Mr Derrick would sing us another song. He has a very beautiful voice, and I am sure his expression—don't you think so, my Lady? Ahem. No; I hear them moving off. Well, he will be in the choir to-morrow morning, that's sure. Had you not better come to the fire, my—— Ah, great Heaven! Mistress, my dear darling mistress, what is the matter? Let me ring for help!"

It was impossible to misunderstand my Lady's "No," although it was not articulate.

Huddled up, as I have said, in the space between the curtain and the window-seat, white and cold as the snow without, voiceless and almost breathless as her maid found her upon venturing to draw aside the heavy damask folds between them, such a look of agonised apprehension yet shot from her eyes as at once to prevent Mistress Forest from putting her design with respect to the bell into effect; nay, more, having assisted my Lady to the sofa, she rightly interpreted a second glance in the direction of the door, to mean "Lock it," and this she did even before arranging the cushions, which would have been the first action with most persons of her class. Mary Forest, although a babbler, was no fool, and she perceived immediately that the distress which was agitating her beloved mistress was at least as much mental as physical. Once before, and only once, she had known my Lady to be what females call "overcome"—that was upon the eve of her marriage with Sir Robert; there was much similarity between the two attacks, but the present was far more violent. In the first instance, she had been told by her Ladyship that it was owing to "the heart," which was fitting enough under her then circumstances—but now when there was no bridegroom-expectant to flutter that organ, it did seem singular certainly. Doubtless her mistress would speak presently, and afford the fullest information; in the meantime there was nothing for it but silence and sal volatile.

My Lady's eyes are closed, and her features pale and still as marble, but her lips are a little parted. With her white hands thus crosswise over her bosom, she looks, thinks the confidential maid—for all the world like that Dame Lisgard in the chancel, by the side of whose marble couch her twelve fair children kneel, and take their mother's ceaseless blessing. All twelve so near of an age, and so marvellously alike, thanks to the skill of the sculptor, that one would have thought the whole dozen—but that four, as Mistress Forest has read in Portents and Prodigies, is the extreme limit—had made their simultaneous arrival in the world. Stiff and cold almost as marble are my Lady's limbs, blue-veined like it and rounded; but by degrees, as Mary rubs them steadily, their life returns.

"Thank you, thank you," murmurs her Ladyship. "I feel better now; but" (this with effort) "I wish to be left alone."

"Alone, my Lady! I dare not leave you thus, without even knowing what ails you."

"Nothing ails me now, Mary—nothing." Lady Lisgard made a feint of smiling, but kept her eyelids shut. She did not dare to let her maid read what was written in her eyes.

"Was it your poor heart, again, madam?"

"Ay, my poor heart!" My Lady was speaking truth there. Among the thousand millions born to suffer on this earth, there was not one upon that Christmas Eve in mental agony more deep than hers. The blow received had been so terrible and unexpected, that it had at first half stupified all feeling; the real torture was now commencing, when she was about to realise the full extent of her injuries. Lady Lisgard was not without courage; but she was no Indian warrior to desire a spectator of such torments. "I must be alone, dear Mary," repeated she. "Be sure you breathe no word of this to any one. Say, however, that I am not very well. The cold when I opened that window to the Waits"—here she visibly shuddered—"seems to have frozen me to the marrow—you may tell them I have taken cold. I shall not be down to breakfast."

"And I should recommend you to stay indoors, my dear (as I hope to persuade Miss Letty to do), although it is Christmas Day," said Mary tenderly, as she made up the fire before leaving the room; "for the church is far from warm."

"I shall not go to church," said Lady Lisgard, with a decision that reassured her attendant, and enabled her to wish her mistress "good-night" without much apprehension.

"He will be in the choir to-morrow morning," was the thought which was crossing the minds of mistress and maid at the same instant.