My brother Harry was now a curate in Westmoreland, and wanted me to go and live with him, as eventually I did for a time.

But that is neither here nor there at present.

What I am talking about is Miss Bessy.
After a reasonable time had elapsed, occupied as I well knew by the meal in the great hall,--the measured, yet agreeable conversation afterwards,--and a certain promenade around the hall, and through the drawing-rooms, with pauses before different pictures, the history or subject of each of which was invariably told by my lady to every new visitor,--a sort of giving them the freedom of the old family-seat, by describing the kind and nature of the great progenitors who had lived there before the narrator,--I heard the steps approaching my lady's room, where I lay.

I think I was in such a state of nervous expectation, that if I could have moved easily, I should have got up and run away.

And yet I need not have been, for Miss Galindo was not in the least altered (her nose a little redder, to be sure, but then that might only have had a temporary cause in the private crying I know she would have had before coming to see her dear Lady Ludlow once again).