dismay, perfectly certain that he had brought home the distemper with
him, and that every creature in the house was in deadly peril.

Lady Vavasour's terror and agitation were pitiful to see. In vain Joan
strove to soothe and quiet her. She would listen to no words of comfort.
Not another hour would she remain in that house. The servants, some of
whom had already fled, were beginning to take the alarm in good earnest,
and were packing up their worldly goods, only anxious to be gone. Horses
and pack horses were being already prepared, for Lady Vavasour had given
half-a-dozen orders for departure before she had made up her mind what
to do or where to go.

Now she was resolved to ride straight to her husband, without drawing
rein, or exchanging a word with any person upon the road. Such of the
servants as wished to accompany her might do so; the rest might do as
they pleased. Her one idea was to be gone, and that as quickly as possible.

She hurried away to change her dress for her long ride, urging Joan to
lose not a moment in doing the same; but what was her dismay on her
return to find her daughter still in her indoor dress, though she was
forwarding her mother's departure by filling the saddlebags with
provisions for the way, and laying strict injunctions upon the trusty
old servants who were about to travel with her to give every care to
their mistress, and avoid so far as was possible any place where there
was likelihood of catching the contagion. They were to bait the horses
in the open, and not to take them under any roof, and all were to carry
their own victuals and drink with them. But that she herself was not to
make one of the party was plainly to be learned by these many and
precise directions.

This fact became patent to the mother directly she came downstairs, and
at once she broke into the most incoherent expression of dismay and
terror; but Joan, after letting her talk for a few minutes to relieve
her feelings, spoke her answer in brief, decisive sentences.

"Mother, it is impossible for me to go. Old Bridget, as you know, is
ill. It is not the distemper, it is one of the attacks of illness to
which she has been all her life subject; but not one of these foolish
wenches will now go near her. She has nursed and tended me faithfully
from childhood. To leave her here alone in this great house, to live or
die as she might, is impossible. Here I remain till she is better. Think
not of me and fear not for me