pocket-money.  They have but few opportunities for matrimony, as Connington is far removed from any town.  The clergyman is a deaf old widower; my agent is married; and as for the neighbouring farmers, they are, of course, below the notice of the young gentlewomen under my protection.  Still, if any young woman wishes to marry, and has conducted herself to my satisfaction, I give her a wedding dinner, her clothes, and her house-linen.  And such as remain with me to my death, will find a small competency provided for them in my will.  I reserve to myself the option of paying their travelling expenses,—­disliking gadding women, on the one hand; on the other, not wishing by too long absence from the family home to weaken natural ties.

’If my proposal pleases you and your daughter—­or rather, if it pleases you, for I trust your daughter has been too well brought up to have a will in opposition to yours—­let me know, dear cousin Margaret Dawson, and I will make arrangements for meeting the young gentlewoman at Cavistock, which is the nearest point to which the coach will bring her.’

My mother dropped the letter, and sat silent.

“I shall not know what to do without you, Margaret.”

A moment before, like a young untried girl as I was, I had been pleased at the notion of seeing a new place, and leading a new life.  But now,—­my mother’s look of sorrow, and the children’s cry of remonstrance:  “Mother; I won’t go,” I said.

“Nay! but you had better,” replied she, shaking her head.  “Lady Ludlow has much power.  She can help your brothers.  It will not do to slight her offer.”

So we accepted it, after much consultation.  We were rewarded,—­or so we thought,—­for, afterwards, when I came to know Lady Ludlow, I saw that she would have done her duty by us, as helpless relations, however we might have rejected her kindness,—­by a presentation to Christ’s Hospital for one of my brothers.

And this was how I came to know my Lady Ludlow.

I remember well the afternoon of my arrival at Hanbury Court.  Her ladyship had sent to meet me at the nearest post-town at which the mail-coach stopped.  There was an old groom inquiring for me, the ostler said, if my name was Dawson—­from Hanbury Court, he believed.  I felt it rather formidable; and first began to understand what was meant by going among strangers, when I lost sight of the guard to whom my mother had intrusted me.  I was perched up in a high gig with a hood to it, such as in those days was called a chair, and my companion was driving deliberately through the most pastoral country I had ever yet seen.  By-and-by we ascended a long hill, and the man got out and walked at the horse’s head.  I should have liked to walk, too, very much indeed; but I did pot know how far I might do it; and, in fact, I dared not speak to ask to be helped down the deep steps of the gig.  We were at last at the top,—­on a long, breezy, sweeping, unenclosed piece of ground, called, as I afterwards learnt, a Chase.  The groom stopped, breathed, patted his horse, and then mounted again to my side.