when Miss Cicely was taken very bad with
some sickness (a sickness that came only once
more in her little life, and took the sweet
child away along with it); once, I say, when
she was lying ill, and everybody going about
with blank faces  and a dead-weight on their
breasts, I think Lady Alice took it to heart.
I saw her at the end of the long gallery,
when she thought no one could see her,
crying bitterly.

I think she would have died sooner than
let anyone see her cry, and I recollect she
had picked up some story out of the old
history books about a boy who had a stolen
fox under his cloak, and let it eat into his
flesh rather than cry out—which she said
was a fine thing, a noble thing, of the boy.
Heathenish, I thought it, and what you might
expect from unchristian people. But the
way the poor dumb brute Pincher took on and
grieved was enough to shame Christian men
with souls. To see him—that we had taken for
a lazy, sleeping creature, with no thought but
for his meals—moping, and searching, and
turning up his long face to everybody,
whining dismally in corners, and refusing his
food, would have touched a heart of stone,
and made me heartily repent having so
misjudged the poor animal.

There was much jubilee, you may be sure,
when Miss Cicely got over that attack. Poor
squire had nearly gone distracted, and in his
trouble, I do believe, vowed to build a church
if she got well. Whether this was so or not,
a church was begun immediately, and there
it stands on the southern half of the estate
some five miles away. It might be a year
after that, coming on to November—it was
hard by November, for All Hallow's Eve
was only a few days off—that young Mr.
Richard came down to the Grange for the
shooting. A fine, bold-spoken, cheery fellow,
full of life and spirits, with an off-hand
manner which took with everybody that
came near him. He was full of dash and
spirit, and was bound for the great French
wars then being fought. So he came down
and shot and ranged over the fells, and every
keeper and follower about the place, and
squire himself, thought they never met with
so fine a fellow. As I said, he was so ready
and off-hand with the men, and in-doors, as
you may well guess, the two little girls
thought there was nobody far or near to
match with Cousin Richard—only each liked
him in a way of her own.

It was pleasant when the long evenings
came on, and the lamp lighted, and the fire
well raked up, and they were all sitting in
this room—the squire weary with his day's
hunting, and young Richard having ridden
perhaps to and from Arbour Court, where he
was fond of visiting—it was pleasant to see
how he would draw up his chair and set to
work amusing himself with the two little
things. He would have them one on each
side of him, and very often Miss Cicely, his
pet, upon his knee; and there she would
laugh and chatter, and ask questions the
whole evening. It was enough to make one
laugh to see Alice's airs, and the way she
tried him with her dignity and stately looks,
all to let him know what a great lady she
was. Then she would dress herself up in all
manner of queer ways, and come in and walk
up and down, with her head back, trying to
attract Cousin Richard's attention, of which
he would purposely take no heed, but talk
and laugh with the little creature on his
knee, telling her that he loved simplicity, and
to be always simple and natural. Until the
other, having flaunted to no purpose, would
be ready to sit down in a corner and cry. Not
that she would think of doing such a thing.
She would not give him that satisfaction,
but would sit and sulk the whole evening.
Then he would speak to her with a kind of
mock respect—calling her the grand Spanish
lady, the Donna, the dark-haired Donna who
had a right to queen it there on account of
her high blood. "Poor little Cicely," he
would say, "you have no blue blood in your
veins."

Blue blood! that was his word on which
she would stamp her foot and fire up, saying,
she had a great Don in Spain for her uncle,
who had a long, long sword, and would
protect her and kill any one that insulted one of
his family. At which terrible threat Mr.
Richard would nearly drop from off his chair
with laughter, and the squire would lift his
eyes from his newspaper and laugh, too;
and then she would step away out of the room,
looking round on them all very wickedly.
Then Miss Cicely, with tears in her eyes and
putting up her hands, would beg and pray
of Cousin Richard not to be so very cruel
to Cousin Alice; and it would all end in
Mr. Richard's going out and bringing her
back with much difficulty, finding her outside
the long corridor like a scared deer.
She would tell him that she hated him, and
always would hate him, and talk again of her
Spanish uncle and his long rapier, which
only made Mr. Richard laugh more and
more, and say that he would be proud to
meet the old Don.

Pretty much the same scene used to go
forward every night, but the fact was, that
for all her pettishness and talk of hating him,
she was very fond of Mr. Richard. Whenever
he would pretend to be angered at some
of her saucy speeches, and not speak to her
for a time, I could see she got troubled, and
tried all manner of little tricks to bring him
round again, without bringing down her
pride. Once when she had marched herself
out of the room into the corridor, Miss
Cicely came running out after her (I was
just then coming up-stairs, and so I heard
it all), and putting her arms round her,
said:

Come back, darling, do. Cousin Richard
didn't mean what he said—I know he doesn't.