here. You must be so good as to leave the house. My
mother is not fit for any agitating scene. Come now, why rage at poor
Miss Palmer? Pretty girls like her are sure to get suitors and set them
by the ears. I daresay you did the same in your day, may do it now you
are a fair widow--eh?'

This soothing flattery had the desired effect. Mrs Henderson calmed
down, and the torrent of her abuse was stemmed. Then the mother's love
asserted itself, and she said, in a tone of real sorrow,--

'But if I have lost Jack, my fine, handsome boy, no one can give him
back to me, and I was so proud of him. But I won't stay here. Why should
I?' and then Mrs Henderson, covering her face with her handkerchief was
gone.

Bryda felt as if the last straw had been laid on her heavy burden, the
last drop in the bitter cup. She went to her room and lay down on her
bed, worn out with misery. Should she go home? Was it kind to leave
Betty with all this trouble alone, with no one to sympathise? And yet
how she dreaded her aunt's tongue and the neighbours' gossip--and _how_
she dreaded to see the Squire's face, the face that haunted her night
and day, lying on the road, with the hailstones dancing on it unheeded.

Perhaps, happily for Bryda, she was left no choice in the matter. When
she went back to the parlour it was time for tea, of which she was
sharply reminded.

Bryda went about the preparations as usual, washed the silver left from
dinner, which no one but herself was ever allowed to touch, and listened
in dumb patience to Mrs Lambert's tirade against the world in general
and herself in particular.

Mrs Lambert was one of those people who do not concern themselves
greatly about the misfortunes of others if they are allowed to see and
hear of them at a distance. But it is quite a different thing if by any
chance the misfortunes of another affect directly or indirectly their
own particular comfort.

Thus, when Bryda said in a choked voice,--

'Will you grant me leave to go home, madam, and release me from my
engagement in your service?'

'Go home! Leave me, after all my kindness to you, leave me with no one
to take your place! A pretty thing indeed! No, miss, you will stay here
till this day six months, according to agreement. Then, if it suits
_me_, I may send you packing. Go home, indeed! You would not have a
vastly warm welcome, methinks. No, stay here, do your duty in the
station of life into which it has pleased God to call you,