Such was the countenance of the lady who only a minute or two before had been smiling and murmuring over the stile so amiably with her idiomatic 'blarney,' as the Irish call that kind of blandishment.
There was no mistaking the malignant disappointment that hooked and warped her features--my heart sank--a tremendous fear overpowered me.

Had she intended poisoning me?
What was in that basket?
I looked in her dreadful face.

I felt for a minute quite frantic.

A feeling of rage with my father, with my Cousin Monica, for abandoning me to this dreadful rogue, took possession of me, and I cried, helplessly wringing my hands-- 'Oh! it is a shame--it is a shame--it is a shame!' The countenance of the gouvernante relaxed.

I think she in turn was frightened at my extreme agitation.