entail now. They can't purchase the land if
they would. A set of trading pedlars
indeed!"

I remember Ethelinda and I looked at each
other at this word "pedlars;" which was the
very word she had put into Sir John's
mouth when taunting his wife with her
father's low birth and calling. We thought,
"We shall see."

Alas! we have seen.

Soon after that evening our good old friend
Mrs. Dawson died. I remember it well,
because Ethelinda and I were put into
mourning for the first time in our lives. A
dear little brother of ours had died only the
year before; and then my father and mother
had decided that we were too young; that
there was no necessity for their incurring the
expense of black frocks. We mourned for
the little delicate darling in our hearts, I
know; and, to this day, I often wonder what
it would have been to have had a brother.
But when Mrs. Dawson died it became a sort
of duty we owed to the Squire's family to
go into black, and very proud and pleased
Ethelinda and I were with our new frocks.
I remember dreaming Mrs. Dawson was
alive again, and crying, because I thought
my new frock would be taken away from
me. But all this has nothing to do with
Morton Hall.

When I first became aware of the greatness
of the Squire's station in life, his family consisted
of himself, his wife (a frail delicate
lady), his only son, "little master," as Mrs.
Dawson was allowed to call him, "the
young Squire," as we in the village always
termed him. His name was John Marmaduke.
He was always called John; and after
Mrs. Dawson's story of the old Sir John, I
used to wish he might not bear that ill-omened
name. He used to ride through the
village in his bright scarlet coat, his long fair
curling hair falling over his lace collar, and
his broad black hat and feather shading his
merry blue eyes. Ethelinda and I thought
then, and I always shall think, there never
was such a boy. He had a fine high spirit
too of his own, and once horse-whipped a
groom twice as big as himself, who had
thwarted him. To see him and Miss Phillis
go tearing through the village on their pretty
Arabian horses, laughing as they met the
west wind, and their long golden curls flying
behind them, you would have thought them
brother and sister rather than nephew and
aunt; for Miss Phillis was the Squire's
sister, much younger than himself; indeed at
the time I speak of, I don't think she could
have been above seventeen, and the young
Squire, her nephew, was nearly ten. I remember
Mrs. Dawson sending for my mother
and me up to the Hall that we might see
Miss Phillis dressed ready to go with her
brother to a ball given at some great lord's
house to Prince William of Gloucester,
nephew to good old George the Third.

When Mrs. Elizabeth, Mrs. Morton's maid,
saw us at tea in Mrs. Dawson's room, she
asked Ethelinda and me if we would not like
to come into Miss Phillis's dressing-room and
watch her dress; and then she said, if we
could promise to keep from touching anything,
she would make interest for us to go.
We would have promised to stand on our
heads, and would have tried to do so too, to
earn such a privilege. So in we went, and
stood together hand-in-hand up in a corner
out of the way, feeling very red, and shy, and
hot, till Miss Phillis put us at our ease by
playing all manner of comical tricks, just to
make us laugh, which at last we did outright
in spite of all our endeavours to be grave, lest
Mrs. Elizabeth should complain of us to my
mother. I recollect the scent of the maréchale
powder with which Miss Phillis's hair was
just sprinkled; and how she shook her head,
like a young colt, to work the hair loose
which Mrs. Elizabeth was straining up over
a cushion. Then Mrs. Elizabeth would try a
little of Mrs. Morton's rouge; and Miss Phillis
would wash it off with a wet towel, saying
that she liked her own paleness better than
any perfumer's colour; and when Mrs. Elizabeth
wanted just to touch her cheeks once
more, she hid herself behind the great armchair,
peeping out with her sweet merry face,
first at one side and then at another, till we
all heard the Squire's voice at the door, asking
her, if she was dressed, to come and show
herself to Madam, her sister-in-law; for, as I
said, Mrs. Morton was a great invalid, and
unable to go out to any grand parties like
this. We were all silent in an instant; and
even Mrs. Elizabeth thought no more of the
rouge, but how to get Miss Phillis's beautiful
blue dress on quick enough. She had cherry-coloured
knots in her hair, and her breast-knots
were of the same ribbon. Her gown
was open in front, to a quilted white silk
skirt. We felt very shy of her as she stood
there fully dressed—she looked so much
grander than anything we had ever seen;
and it was like a relief when Mrs. Elizabeth
told us to go down to Mrs. Dawson's parlour,
where my mother was sitting all this time.

Just as we were telling how merry and
comical Miss Phillis had been, in came a foot-man.
"Mrs. Dawson," said he, "the Squire
bids me ask you to go with Mrs. Sidebotham
into the west parlour, to have a look at Miss
Morton before she goes."We went too,
clinging to my mother. Miss Phillis looked
rather shy as we came in, and stood just by
the door. I think we all must have shown
her that we had never seen anything so beautiful,
as she was, in our lives before; for she
went very scarlet at our fixed gaze of admiration,
and to relieve herself she began to play
all manner of antics, whirling round, and
making cheeses with her rich silk petticoat,
unfurling her fan (a present from Madam to
complete her dress), and peeping first on one
side and then on the other, just as she had