onting a
question. If you ever took the trouble, aunt, to listen to, or look at,
Lieutenant Puddock, you might--'

'Well, niece,' quoth Aunt Becky, interrupting, with a little toss of her
head, 'young ladies weren't quite so hard to please in my time, and I
can't see or hear that he's so much worse than others.'

'I'd sooner die than have him,' said Miss Gertie, peremptorily.

'Then, I suppose, if ever, and whenever he asks you the question
himself, you'll have no hesitation in telling him so?' said Aunt Becky,
with becoming solemnity.

'Laughable, ridiculous, comical, and absurd, as I always thought and
believed Lieutenant Puddock to be, I yet believe the asking such a
question of me to be a stretch of absurdity, from which his breeding,
for he is a gentleman, will restrain him. Besides, Madam, you can't
possibly be aware of the subjects on which he has invariably discoursed
whenever he happened to sit by me--plays and players, and candied fruit.
Really, Madam, it is too absurd to have to enter upon one's defence
against so incredible an imagination.'

Aunt Rebecca looked steadily for a few seconds in her niece's face, then
drew a long breath, and leaning over, kissed her again on the forehead,
and with a grave little nod, and looking on her again for a short space,
without saying a word more, she turned suddenly and left the room.

Miss Gertrude's vexation again gave way to merriment; and her aunt, as
she walked sad and stately up stairs, heard one peal of merry laughter
after another ring through her niece's bed-room. She had not laughed so
much for three years before; and this short visit cost her, I am sure,
two hours' good sleep at least.

CHAPTER LXV.

RELATING SOME AWFUL NEWS THAT REACHED THE VILLAGE, AND HOW DR.
WALSINGHAM VISITED CAPTAIN RICHARD DEVEREUX AT HIS LODGINGS.

And now there was news all over the town, to keep all the tongues there
in motion.

News--news--great news!--terrible news! Peter Fogarty, Mr. Tresham's
boy, had it that morning from his cousin, Jim Redmond, whose aunt lived
at Ringsend, and kept the little shop over against the 'Plume of
Feathers,' where you might have your pick and choice of all sorts of
nice and useful things--bacon, brass snuff-boxes, penny ballads, eggs,
candles, cheese, tobacco-pipes, pinchbeck buckles for knee and instep,
soap, sausages, and who knows what beside.

No one quite believed it--it was a tradition at third hand, and Peter
Fogarty's cou