“No,” replied Mr. Folliard, “send her up at once; what the devil can this be? but you shall witness it.”

The baronet smiled knowingly.  “Well,” said he, “Mr. Folliard, upon my honor, I thought you had sown your wild oats many a year ago; and, by the way, according to all accounts—­hem—­but no matter; this, to be sure, will be rather a late crop.”

“No, sir, I sowed my wild oats in the right season, when I was hot, young, and impetuous; but long before your age, sir, that field had been allowed to lie barren.”

He had scarcely concluded when Miss Herbert, acting upon a plan of her own, which, were not the baronet a man of the most imperturbable coolness, might have staggered, if not altogether confounded him, entered the room.

“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, with a flood of tears, kneeling before Mr. Folliard, “can you forgive and pardon me?”

“It is not against you, foolish girl, that my resentment is or shall be directed, but against the man who employed you—­and there he sits.”

“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, again turning to that worthy gentleman, who seemed filled with astonishment.

“In God’s name!” said he, interrupting his accomplice, “what can this mean?  Who are you, my good girl?”

“My name’s Catherine Wilson, sir.”

“Catherine Wilson!” exclaimed the squire—­“why, confound your brazen face, are you not the person who styled yourself Miss Herbert, and who lived, thank God, but for a short time only, in my family?”

“I lived in your family, sir, but I am not the Miss Herbert that Sir Robert Whitecraft recommended to you.”

“I certainly know nothing about you, my good girl,” replied Sir Robert, “nor do I recollect having ever seen you before; but proceed with what you have to say, and let us hear it at once.”

“Yes, sir; but perhaps you are not the gentleman as is known to be Sir Robert Whitecraft—­him as hunts the priests.  Oh, la, I’ll surely be sent to jail.  Gentlemen, if you promise not to send me to jail, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Well, then, proceed,” said the squire; “I will not send you to jail, provided you tell the truth.”

“Nor I, my good girl,” added Sir Robert, “but upon the same conditions.”

“Well, then, gentlemen, I was acquainted with Miss Herbert—­she is Hirish, but I’m English.  This gentleman gave her a letter to you, Mr. Folliard, to get her as maid to Miss Helen—­she told me—­oh, my goodness, I shall surely be sent to jail.”

“Go on, girl,” said the baronet somewhat sternly, by which tone of voice he intimated—­to her that she was pursuing the right course, and she was quick enough to understand as much.

“Well,” she proceeded, “after Miss Herbert had got the letter, she told her sweetheart, who wouldn’t by no means allow her to take service, because as why, he wanted to marry her; well, she consented, and they did get married, and both of them left the country because her father wasn’t consenting.  As the letter was of no use to her then, I asked her for it, and offered myself in her name to you, sir, and that was the way I came into your family for a short time.”