To this I answered that the amount already remitted by Colonel Morris
would prevent such a calamity, but she stopped my attempt at consolation
by telling me not to talk about things I did not understand.

"Give me William Craven's address," she added, "and I will write to
him direct. I wonder what he means by leaving a parcel of ignorant
boys to attend to his clients while he is away enjoying himself! Give
me his address, and some paper and an envelope, and I can write my
letter here."

I handed her the paper and the envelope, and placed pen and ink
conveniently before her, but I declined to give her Mr. Craven's
address. We would forward the letter, I said; but when Mr. Craven went
away for his holiday, he was naturally anxious to leave business behind
as much as possible.

Then Miss Blake took steady aim, and fired at me. Broadside after
broadside did she pour into my unprotected ears; she opened the vials of
her wrath and overwhelmed me with reproaches; she raked up all the
grievances she had for years been cherishing against England, and by
some sort of verbal legerdemain made me responsible for every evil she
could recollect as ever having happened to her. Her sister's marriage,
her death, Mr. Elmsdale's suicide, the unsatisfactory state of his
affairs, the prejudice against River Hall, the defection of Colonel
Morris--all these things she laid at my door, and insisted on making me
responsible for them.

"And now," she finished, pushing back her bonnet and pulling off her
gloves, "I'll just write my opinion of you to Mr. Craven, and I'll wait