The butler reappeared.

"I beg pardon, Sir George, Mrs. Turnover
is quite agreeable, Sir George; but Miss Esther
herself insists on walking home, Sir George, nor
we can't perwent her, Sir George."

"Present my compliments to Miss—what
name did you say?—Esther—and request her, as
a favour, not to put me to the pain of sending
a lady from Gosling Graize, even in a carriage,
at this hour of the night, when twenty chambers
are at her disposal.  Dawes will receive
her orders in the morning, at any hour she
pleases."

"Yes Sir George, very good, Sir George,"
said Mr Fanshaw, evidently approving the
amended message, and went his way.

George thought of Mildred till he went to
sleep.  A revolution then occurred, and slumber,
which has a tyranny of its own, decreed,
and somehow contrived, that he should dream
of Esther Vann.

CHAPTER IV.

In the mean time, there had been proceeding,
in the apartment occupied by Mrs. Mapes,
the housekeeper, a grand council, or divan.
Stretched upon a couch (for she was, as has
been stated, a victim to rheumatism), Mrs.
Mapes, excited by the astounding intelligence
which had reached her, looked less like an invalid
than might have been expected, and took
an ample share in the deliberations. Truth to
say, these were almost exclusively of a conjectural
character, and had reference to the
enigma present to every mind, and expressing
itself there, in the simple terms "how ever
master can mean to make such a fool of hisself
as this comes to!"

The heroine of that eventful day—Mrs. Turnover
herself—was seated in a chair of state,
close beside the presidential couch, surrounded
by her admiring, not to say wondering, friends,
while Esther sat apart, pale, sad, bewildered,
hardly able to believe that what she saw and
heard was not a foolish dream. Compelled to
yield to Sir George's proposition, she was content
to let it be thought that the restraint put
upon her movements had slightly affected her
temper, and made her disinclined to take part
in the debate.

"And you are sure, my dear soul, he ain't
mad?" said Mrs. Mapes, affectionately (for she
didn't like her), placing her hand on the pudgy
paw of Mrs. Turnover.

Some hours, it will be remembered, had now
elapsed since Sir George's return, and the observant
reader, aware how readily the human
mind adapts itself to the most unexpected contingencies,
will not be surprised to learn that
Mrs. Turnover began to be a little annoyed at
the circumstance of everybody at once jumping
to the conclusion that nothing short of insanity
could explain their master's choice. She
therefore replied with a little acerbity, that
he might have been mad, for aught she
knew; but, at the same time, he evidently
know'd well enough what he was a-doing on.

"Don't be angry, my dear creature," said the
mild housekeeper. " We don't think it strange,
we that know your value, that you should have
a handsome offer. But master's seen so
little of you, so very little, hasn't he? What
ever can he his reason?"

"To be sure, he've seen a good deal more of
you," retorted Mrs. Turnover. "But it don't
seem to have made any difference, in a matrimonial
pint o' view."

"He might, have heard what a hexlent creetur,
you be" said Gertrude, going in betimes for
serious flattery.

"It's not a sudding thing," remarked the
laundry-maid. "Depend upon it, this has been
a long time shimmering in his mind. He
wanted to be quite sure of his feelins. It's ockard,
when a man ses slap he loves you, and
then finds he don't. That's why master was so
long speaking out."

"Well, at all events he done it effectually at
last," said Mrs. Turnover, hardly knowing
whether the last speech could be taken in a
complimentary sense, or not.

"There's no guessin' o' men. They hides their
feelins so," said Gertrude, who squinted, had a
snub nose, and from whom mankind in general
had managed to conceal their feelings most successfully.

"Did you notice any simtims of offection at
hodd times, such as when he was a-hordering
dinner, or paying your wages, and that, ma'am?"
inquired Mr. Farnshaw, whose presence in the
lady's room was tolerated in consideration of
the importance of the occasion, and on condition
that he did not sit down. "Come! did he never
make no excuse for to squeedge your hand?"

"I—I don't remember as he ever did—no,
I am positive he never did," said Mrs. Turnover,
after due reflection.

"Or was you ever sittin' by him permiscus
anywheres, when he's nudged you, or pinched
your helbo?" pursued Mr. Fanshaw, whose
ideas of wooing seemed exclusively muscular.

"Never," said the lady.

"P'raps he's heard as you're 'titled to some
money!" suggested a voice in the distance.
But this spiteful idea was scouted.

"It can't hardly be my figger," said the cook,
frankly. "N' more it couldn't be my face, for I'm
changed a bit since Turnover first kep company
with me at Habbot's Hann. I weer pretty then."

"Why, what aire you now, ma'am ':" put in the
unblushing Gertrude. "Look at your heye, and
your 'air. I've heard tell it used to be sot upon."

"Law!" said Mr. Fanshaw. "Is that good
for the hair?"

"Turnover was as proud as a peacock of my
curls, just, as if they was his own,'' said his relict,
with a sigh. "His last words to me, huttered just
as his voice was failing, was these: 'Barbary,'
he ses, 'give me some drops.' We giv' 'em.
Then he goes on, 'French is good 'air, specially
for middle-aged fronts and puffers. North German
makes good working wigs; but Swish is
best of all,' he ses. 'I've paid,' he ses, graspin'
my hand, 'as much as three pound siven,
ay, and three pound twelve, for Swish light
brown, afore baking. But into anything like