been mistaken.'

Weak as she was, Emily had spirit enough to feel the reproof.
She walked in her meek noiseless way to the door. 'I beg your pardon,
Miss. I am not quite so bad as you think me. But I beg your pardon,
all the same.'

She opened the door. Agnes called her back. There was something
in the woman's apology that appealed irresistibly to her just and
generous nature. 'Come,' she said; 'we must not part in this way.
Let me not misunderstand you. What is it that you expected me
to do?'

Emily was wise enough to answer this time without any reserve.
'My husband will send his testimonials, Miss, to Lord Montbarry
in Scotland. I only wanted you to let him say in his letter
that his wife has been known to you since she was a child,
and that you feel some little interest in his welfare on that account.
I don't ask it now, Miss. You have made me understand that I
was wrong.'

Had she really been wrong? Past remembrances, as well as present
troubles, pleaded powerfully with Agnes for the courier's wife.
'It seems only a small favour to ask,' she said, speaking under
the impulse of kindness which was the strongest impulse in her nature.
'But I am not sure that I ought to allow my name to be mentioned in your
husband's letter. Let me hear again exactly what he wishes to say.'
Emily repeated the words--and then offered one of those suggestions,
which have a special value of their own to persons unaccustomed to the use
of their pens. 'Suppose you try, Miss, how it looks in writing?'