Of course the beds did not always want making; but more than once after an encounter with Mrs Luttrell upon some domestic question, where it was all mild reproof on one side, acerbity on the other, Thisbe had been known to go up to the best bedroom, drag a couple of chairs forward, and relieve her mind by pulling the bed to pieces, s.n.a.t.c.hing quilt and blankets and sheets off over the chairs, and engaging in a furious fight with pillows, bolster, and feather bed, hitting, punching, and turning, till she was hot; and then, having thoroughly conquered the soft, inanimate objects and her own temper at the same time, the bed was smoothly re-made, and Thisbe sighed.

"I shall have to part with Thisbe," Mrs Luttrell often used to say to husband and daughter; but matters went no farther: perhaps she knew in her heart that Thisbe would not go.

The beds had all been made, and there had been no encounter with Mrs Luttrell about any domestic matter relating to spreading a cloth in the drawing-room before the grate was blackleaded, or using up one loaf in the kitchen before a second was cut. In fact, Thisbe had been all smiles that morning, and had uttered a few croaks in the kitchen, which she did occasionally under the impression that she was singing; but all at once she had rushed upstairs like the wind in winter when the front door was opened, and to carry out the simile, she had dashed back a bedroom door, and closed it with a bang.

This done, she had made a bed furiously--so furiously that the feathers flew from a weak corner, and had to be picked up and tucked in again.

After this, red-faced and somewhat refreshed, Thisbe pulled a housewife out of a tremendous pocket like a saddle-bag, threaded a needle, and sewed up the failing spot.

"It's dreadful, that's what it is!" she muttered at last, "and I'm going to speak my mind."

She did not speak her mind then, but went down to her work, and worked with her ears twitching like those of some animal on the _qui vive_ for danger; and when Thisbe twitched her ears there was a corresponding action in the muscles about the corners of her mouth, which added to the animal look, for it suggested that she might be disposed to bite.

Some little time afterwards she walked into the drawing-room, looking at its occupant in a soured way.

"Letter for you, Miss Milly," she said.

"A note for me, Thisbe?" And Millicent took the missive which Thisbe held with her ap.r.o.n to keep it clean.

"Mr Bayle give it me hissen."

Millicent's face grew troubled, and Thisbe frowned, and left the room shaking her head.

The note was brief, and the tears stood in Millicent's eyes as she read it twice.

"_Pity me. Forgive me. I was mad_."

"Poor boy!" she said softly as she refolded it and placed it in her desk, to stand there, thoughtful and with her brow wrinkled.

She was in the bay-window, and after standing there a few minutes, her face changed; the troubled look pa.s.sed away as a steady, regular step was heard on the gravel path beyond the hedge. There was the faint creaking noise, too, at every step of the hard tight boots, and as their wearer pa.s.sed, Millicent looked up and returned the salute: for a glossy hat was raised, and he who bowed pa.s.sed on, leaving her with her colour slightly heightened and an eager look in her eyes.

"Any answer, miss?"

Millicent turned quickly, to see that Thisbe had returned.

"Answer?"

"Yes, miss. The note."

"Is Mr Bayle waiting?"

"No, miss; but I thought you might want to send him one, and I'm going out and could leave it on the way."

"No, Thisbe, there is no answer."

"Are you sure, miss?"

"Sure, Thisbe? Of course."

Thisbe stood pulling the hem of her ap.r.o.n and making it snap.

"Oh! I would send him a line, miss. I like Mr Bayle. For such a young man, the way he can preach is wonderful. But, Miss Milly," she cried with a sudden, pa.s.sionate outburst, "please, don't--don't do that!"

"What do you mean, Thisbe?"

"I can't abear it, miss. It frightens and worries me."

"Thisbe!"

"I can't help it, miss. I'm a woman too, and seven years older than you are. Don't, please don't, take any notice of me. There, don't look cross at me, miss. I must speak when I see things going wrong."

"What do you mean?" cried Millicent, crimsoning. "I mean I used to lead you about when you was a little thing and keep you out o' the puddles when the road was clatty, and though you never take hold o' my hand now, I must speak when you're going wrong."

"Thisbe, this is a liberty!"

"I can't help it, Miss Milly; I see him coming by in his creaking boots, and taking off his hat, and walking by here, when he has no business, and people talking about it all over the town."

"And in this house. Thisbe, you are forgetting your place."

"Oh, no, I'm not, miss. I'm thinking about you and Mr Hallam, miss. I know."

"Thisbe, mamma and I have treated you more as a friend than a servant; but--"

"That's it, miss; and I shouldn't be a friend if I was to stand by and see you walk raight into trouble without a word."

"Thisbe!"

"I don't care, Miss Milly, I will speak. Don't have nowt to do wi' him; he's too handsome; never you have nowt to do wi' a handsome man."

Millicent's ordinarily placid face a.s.sumed a look foreign to it--a look of anger and firmness combined; but she compressed her lips, as if to keep back words she would rather not utter, and then smiled once more.

"Ah, you may laugh, Miss Milly; but it's nothing to laugh at. And there's Mr Bayle, too. You're having letters from he."

Millicent's face changed again; but she mastered her annoyance, and, laying her hand upon Thisbe's shoulder, said with a smile:

"I don't want to be angry with you, Thisbe, but you have grown into a terribly prejudiced woman."

"Enough to make me, seeing what I do, Miss Milly."

"Come, come, you must not talk like this."

"Ah, now you're beginning to coax again, as you always did when you wanted your own way; but it's of no use, my dear, I don't like him, and I never shall. I'd rather you'd marry old Sir Gordon; he is nice, though he do dye his hair. I don't like him and there's an end of it."

"Nonsense, Thisbe!"

"No, it isn't nonsense. I don't like him, and I never shall."

"But why? Have you any good reason?"