Her ladyship always passed the morning, after breakfast, in a room adjoining her own bed-room, in which she daily held deep debate with Griffiths, her factotum, respecting household affairs, knitting-needles, and her own little ailments and cossetings.  Griffiths, luckily, was a woman of much the same tastes as her ladyship, only somewhat of a more active temperament; and they were most stedfast friends.  It was such a comfort to Lady Cashel to have some one to whom she could twaddle!

The morning after Lord Kilcullen’s departure Fanny knocked at her door, and was asked to come in.  The countess, as usual, was in her easy chair, with the knitting-apparatus in her lap, and Griffiths was seated at the table, pulling about threads, and keeping her ladyship awake by small talk.

“I’m afraid I’m disturbing you, aunt,” said Fanny, “but I wanted to speak to you for a minute or two.  Good morning, Mrs Griffiths.”

“Oh, no! you won’t disturb me, Fanny.  I was a little busy this morning, for I wanted to finish this side of the—­You see what a deal I’ve done,”—­and the countess lugged up a whole heap of miscellaneous worsted from a basket just under her arm—­“and I must finish it by lady-day [25], or I shan’t get the other done, I don’t know when.  But still, I’ve plenty of time to attend to you.”

     [FOOTNOTE 25:  lady-day—­Annunciation Day, March 25]

“Then I’ll go down, my lady, and see about getting the syrup boiled,” said Griffiths.  “Good morning, Miss Wyndham.”

“Do; but mind you come up again immediately—­I’ll ring the bell when Miss Wyndham is going; and pray don’t leave me alone, now.”

“No, my lady—­not a moment,” and Griffiths escaped to the syrup.

Fanny’s heart beat quick and hard, as she sat down on the sofa, opposite to her aunt.  It was impossible for any one to be afraid of Lady Cashel, there was so very little about her that could inspire awe; but then, what she had to say was so very disagreeable to say!  If she had had to tell her tale out loud, merely to the empty easy chair, it would have been a dreadful undertaking.

“Well, Fanny, what can I do for you?  I’m sure you look very nice in your bombazine; and it’s very nicely made up.  Who was it made it for you?”

“I got it down from Dublin, aunt; from Foley’s.”

“Oh, I remember; so you told me.  Griffiths has a niece makes those things up very well; but then she lives at Namptwich, and one couldn’t send to England for it.  I had such a quantity of mourning by me, I didn’t get any made up new; else, I think I must have sent for her.”

“My dear aunt, I am very unhappy about something, and I want you to help me.  I’m afraid, though, it will give you a great deal of trouble.”

“Good gracious, Fanny!—­what is it?  Is it about poor Harry?  I’m sure I grieved about him more than I can tell.”

“No, aunt:  he’s gone now, and time is the only cure for that grief.  I know I must bear that without complaining.  But, aunt, I feel—­I think, that is, that I’ve used Lord Ballindine very ill.”