when there was danger, and such a coward,
now there's none! But, there now, never mind,
lie you still for half an hour  —  and — then——-
Mercy, girl, what's this?" added Mrs. Turnover,
"turning almost as pale as her patient had
done a minute before.

"That?" cried Esther, laughing. "My dear
aunt, nothing. A mere scratch."

"Not from the dog?"

"Dog! No — no— no, dear. Calm yourself,"
said Esther, hastily. "I was 'plucking a rose,
Sir George addressed me suddenly, and I got a
scratch — that's all."

"Lor, what a turn it giv' me!" said her
aunt, sitting down on the bed, with her hand on
her portly side. "No wonder, for there's all
the mark of the beast's foam close to it, on
your wristband. I shall take and snip it off."

She did so, and also washed and bound up
the passive hand, to all of which Esther
submitted placidly.

"And now," said Mrs. Turnover, "I must
go and titivate myself a bit. I 'spects somebody
else will be a-wantin' of me." (I wonder if
Fanshaw's giv' the letter!) "Now, you lay
quiet as a mouse for half an hour. I shall putt
myself to rights in Dolly's room, so's not to
worrit you, a-bobbing about. Get a sleep if
you can, if 'tis only a wink."

Not even the relief obtainable from a nap of
this duration was yet vouchsafed to Esther.
She did, indeed, close her eyes, until her aunt,
after a minute's rummage among the treasures of
her wardrobe, trotted off to an adjoining room,
and closed the door. Then, however, she rose
from the bed, and, kneeling beside it, poured out
her soul in gratitude to the great Defender, who
had, through her feeble hand, turned aside so
great a peril. Then, in the reaction that succeeds
intense excitement, sleep deigned to visit her.

A few minutes had elapsed, when the door
of the apartment to which Mrs. Turnover had
retired, opened softly, and displayed that lady
listening, and lacing her stays. Finding all
quiet, she advanced a step or two in the direction
of Esther's room, and this enables us to
record the fact that the good lady usually wore,
under her dress, an uncertain-coloured petticoat,
which might be described as pepper-and-salt,
with a dash of mustard, and whose brevity
authorises the addition that she regarded black
cotton stockings, with grey worsted tops, as
becoming and economical wear.

What article of dress the lady had forgotten
to take from her drawer, is not material to this
narrative. She deemed it essential, since, with
great care and pains, she made her way
noiselessly into the chamber, and was stretching out
her hand to the half-opened drawer, when a
murmur from the sleeper's lips caught her ear.
She stopped. Again the murmur. It sounded,
this time, like somebody's name.

"Eh! — Wha—at?" said Mrs. Turnover,
softly. "What's that?"

She had advanced just beyond the curtain of
Esther's couch, and, by merely revolving on
the stately pedestals we have already referred
to as clothed in black and grey, without moving
from her place, could distinguish Esther's
face. The cheek was flushed, and, even in
sleep, a tear was upon it, while her lips moved
in feverish action. For a moment, her words
were inaudible, then shaped themselves into:

"Safe! — Safe! — My life! — My more than
life! — George!" She breathed a profound sigh,
and sank into quiet rest.

"Well — I — never!" were the first words the
listener's quivering lips attempted to frame.

After a moment, Mrs. Turnover appeared to
rally her disordered thoughts. She faced the
bed. As she gazed on the pretty sleeper, a tear
crept into her eye, and if something in the facial
angle did direct it down the nose instead of
the cheeks, there was no less honour due to the
generous source from whence it came.

Then she glanced at the half-open drawer,
and the reflection: "How lucky 'twas I come
back for my bustle! How things do bob up
unexpectedly!" passed through her mind.

With that, the kind soul turned, and observing,
if possible, double caution, stole back to
the chamber she had left. Good woman! If
Turnover could see you now, that often-quoted
man must have acknowledged his confidence in
your frank and single-hearted nature not
misplaced, and that the most complimentary of all
his last speeches did not exceed your desert.

That Mrs. Turnover did not experience a
pang of disappointment, is not pretended.
The credit claimed for her is mainly due to the
readiness with which she confessed to herself
that, whatever might be the issue of Esther's
attachment, the fact of its existence was an
absolute and insuperable bar to her own pretensions.

"Pretty, sweet creetur!" said Mrs. Turnover,
as she finished her lacing before the glass,
and saw (but she was not apostrophising that)
a large coarse torso in the aforesaid
dirt-coloured petticoat, and a square head with short
grizzled hair. "Lord bless my soul! what an
old gaby I had nearly gone and been! Cunning
little 'ussy that you be! You'd never ha'
told me — not you! And think of all that
purtence of anger last night, and wouldn't even
stoop — my lady wouldn't — to open the door for
him! And she'd on'y seen his pictur', a'ter
all! Well, love's a queer thing! There goes
the cussed string!" Lace renewed, and Mrs.
Turnover continued: "'George' she called
him! Well, people is bold, asleep!"

The good lady hastily completed her toilette,
resuming her original or working garments, and,
after one peep at the still slumbering Esther,
hurried down stairs in search of Mr. Fanshaw.

That gentleman's movements, since we last
saw him, had been characterised by considerable
indecision. The important letter had been
confided to him, with instructions to use his own
discretion in the mode of delivery. But for
this mysterious addition, the worthy man would,
no doubt, have adopted the common-sense course
of placing it beside his master's other letters
on the breakfast-table. As, however, this
proceeding seemed to demand no particular
exercise of discretion or delicacy of touch, Mr.
Fanshaw at once rejected it, as a non-fulfilment