It was a two-mile walk to the village, and on my way I had time to turn things over in my mind.  It struck me as peculiar that my mistress should wish the prescription made up without Mr. Brympton’s knowledge; and, putting this together with the scene of the night before, and with much else that I had noticed and suspected, I began to wonder if the poor lady was weary of her life, and had come to the mad resolve of ending it.  The idea took such hold on me that I reached the village on a run, and dropped breathless into a chair before the chemist’s counter.  The good man, who was just taking down his shutters, stared at me so hard that it brought me to myself.

“Mr. Limmel,” I says, trying to speak indifferent, “will you run your eye over this, and tell me if it’s quite right?”

He put on his spectacles and studied the prescription.

“Why, it’s one of Dr. Walton’s,” says he.  “What should be wrong with it?”

“Well—­is it dangerous to take?”

“Dangerous—­how do you mean?”

I could have shaken the man for his stupidity.

“I mean—­if a person was to take too much of it—­by mistake of course—­” says I, my heart in my throat.

“Lord bless you, no.  It’s only lime-water.  You might feed it to a baby by the bottleful.”

I gave a great sigh of relief, and hurried on to Mr. Ranford’s.  But on the way another thought struck me.  If there was nothing to conceal about my visit to the chemist’s, was it my other errand that Mrs. Brympton wished me to keep private?  Somehow, that thought frightened me worse than the other.  Yet the two gentlemen seemed fast friends, and I would have staked my head on my mistress’s goodness.  I felt ashamed of my suspicions, and concluded that I was still disturbed by the strange events of the night.  I left the note at Mr. Ranford’s—­and, hurrying back to Brympton, slipped in by a side door without being seen, as I thought.

An hour later, however, as I was carrying in my mistress’s breakfast, I was stopped in the hall by Mr. Brympton.

“What were you doing out so early?” he says, looking hard at me.

“Early—­me, sir?” I said, in a tremble.

“Come, come,” he says, an angry red spot coming out on his forehead, “didn’t I see you scuttling home through the shrubbery an hour or more ago?”

I’m a truthful woman by nature, but at that a lie popped out ready-made.  “No, sir, you didn’t,” said I, and looked straight back at him.

He shrugged his shoulders and gave a sullen laugh.  “I suppose you think I was drunk last night?” he asked suddenly.

“No, sir, I don’t,” I answered, this time truthfully enough.

He turned away with another shrug.  “A pretty notion my servants have of me!” I heard him mutter as he walked off.