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 lady, “and I dare swear meant well. It is a pity, though, his face and manner do little match his true purpose—for I think his purpose may be true.”

“Doubt it not, my lady,” answered Janet,—“Doubt not that my father purposes well, though he is a plain man, and his blunt looks may belie his heart.”

“I will not doubt it, girl, were it only for thy sake; and yet he has one of those faces which men tremble when they look on—I think even thy mother, Janet—nay, have done with that poking-iron—could hardly look upon him without quaking.”

“If it were so, madam,” answered Janet Foster, “my mother had those who could keep her in honourable countenance. Why, even you, my lady, both trembled and blushed when Varney brought the letter from my lord.”

“You are bold, damsel,” said the Countess, rising from the cushions on which she sate half reclined in the arms of her attendant—“Know, that there are causes of trembling which have nothing to do with fear.—But, Janet,” she added, immediately relapsing into the good-natured and familiar tone which was natural to her, “believe me I will do what credit I can to your father, and the rather that you, sweetheart, are his child—Alas! alas!” she added, a sudden sadness passing over her fine features, and her eyes filling with tears, “I ought the rather to hold sympathy with thy kind heart, that my own poor father is uncertain of my fate, and they say lies sick and sorrowful for my worthless sake!—But I will soon cheer him—the news of my happi-