heather by the way. The moor is lovely in the afternoon."

"You dear soul!" Lady Maria broke forth. "What a boon you are to a
woman!"

She felt quite grateful. There arose in her mind an impulse to invite
Emily Fox-Seton to remain the rest of her life with her, but she was too
experienced an elderly lady to give way to impulses. She privately
resolved, however, that she would have her a good deal in South Audley
Street, and would make her some decent presents.

When Emily Fox-Seton, attired for her walk in her shortest brown linen
frock and shadiest hat, passed through the hall, the post-boy was just
delivering the midday letters to a footman. The servant presented his
salver to her with a letter for herself lying upon the top of one
addressed in Lady Claraway's handwriting "To the Lady Agatha Slade."
Emily recognised it as one of the epistles of many sheets which so often
made poor Agatha shed slow and depressed tears. Her own letter was
directed in the well-known hand of Mrs. Cupp, and she wondered what it
could contain.

"I hope the poor things are not in any trouble," she thought. "They were
afraid the young man in the sitting-room was engaged. If he got married
and left them, I don't know what they would do; he has been so regular."

Though the day was hot, the weather was perfect, and Emily, having
exchanged her easy slippers for an almost equally easy pair of tan
shoes, found her tired feet might still be used. Her disposition to make
the very best of things inspired her to regard even an eight-mile walk
with courage. The moorland air was so sweet, the sound of the bees