a very slight
push from a malignant destiny would utterly upset it. That push was not
long in being given, as you shall hear.

One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his parochial visits, and the
sunlight was streaming through the bow-window of the sitting-room, where
Milly was seated at her sewing, occasionally looking up to glance at the
children playing in the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, which
she at once recognized as the Countess's, and that well-dressed lady
presently entered the sitting-room, with her veil drawn over her face.
Milly was not at all surprised or sorry to see her; but when the Countess
threw up her veil, and showed that her eyes were red and swollen, she was
both surprised and sorry.

'What can be the matter, dear Caroline?'

Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp; then she threw her arms
round Milly's neck, and began to sob; then she threw herself on the sofa,
and begged for a glass of water; then she threw off her bonnet and shawl;
and by the time Milly's imagination had exhausted itself in conjuring up
calamities, she said,--'Dear, how shall I tell you? I am the most
wretched woman. To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been so
devoted--to see him degrading himself--giving himself utterly to the
dogs!'

'What can it be?' said Milly, who began to picture to herself the sober
Mr. Bridmain taking to brandy and betting.

'He is going to be married--to marry my own maid, that deceitful Alice,
to whom I have been the most indulgent mistress. Did you ever hear of
anything so disgraceful? so mortifying? so disreputable?'

'And has he only just told you of it?' said Milly, who, having really
heard of worse conduct, even in her innocent life, avoided a direct
answer.

'Told me of it! he had not even the grace to do that. I went into the
dining-room suddenly and found him kissing her--disgusting at his time of
life, is it not?--and when I reproved her for allowing such liberties,
she turned round saucily, and said she was engaged to be married to my
brother, and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. Edmund is a
miserable coward, you know, and looked frightened; but when she asked him
to say whether it was not so, he tried to summon up courage and say yes.
I left the room in disgust, and this morning I have been questioning
Edmund, and find that he is bent on marrying this woman, and that he has
been putting off telling me--because he was ashamed of himself,