e
by Lord Cedric upon thy arrival in England. 'Twill give thee greater
pleasure then."

"But Janet; a Scot! A blustering, red-faced Scot with petticoats! Hast
ever seen one outside of pictures?"

"Aye, Lambkin, and 'twas the unseemly kilt that was the better part;
for I have met a blustering red-faced Scot as thou sayest; and he
was boisterous and surly, giving vent to a choleric temper by coarse
oaths; and 'twas his plaid denoted a gentleman of high rank withal.
The long hair that swept his shoulders was as florid as his face, as
was also his flowing whiskers and mustachio, the latter being bitten
short and forming a bristling fringe over a slavering mouth,--what is
it, Mistress, thou art pale, has pain taken thee?"

"Nay, 'tis nausea, an awful loathing; I wish to remain here. Send at
once my desires to my father. I will not go to England, Janet!"

"'Tis better thou shouldst think of something else beside my Lord
Cedric, for instance, his great demesne, Crandlemar Castle, the most
beautiful of his several seats; the splendid horses and equipages;
and, thyself, Lambkin, think of thyself bedecked in gorgeous hued
brocades; be-furbelowed in rare lace and costly furs. And thou wilt
have a maid to build thy hair, tie shoulder knots and make smart
ribbons and frills, and furbish bijoux and gems. And thou wilt wear
perfume, and carry a nosegay and fan. And thou wilt sweep the most
graceful courtesy and queen it everywhere with thy sweet graciousness.
Thy father says thou shouldst become an idol to the old man's heart,
as my lord is without wife or daughter."

"If his demesne be in England, 'tis but right he should become as far
as possible a genuine Anglo-Saxon, and if I can turn him, I will. How
soon does the boat sail?"

"Within forty-eight hours we shall be upon the sea and thou wilt
have begun to whimper and bemoan its awful swell. 'Twill have more
evacuating power than teeth-curtailed mustachios upon thy heretofore
staunch stomach."

"Nay, I will not believe my Lord Cedric such a man; and yet thou hast
drawn a picture that will be ever before me until I see him. Sister
Agnes would say,--'there is a sinfulness in doubt and anxiety,
inasmuch as such thoughts lash the soul to uneasiness and draw it
from celestial contemplations. Think not on it!' neither will I,
but rather, I will fancy the morrow's sun glinting upon myriad
white-capped waves; the bosom of the ocean swelling with emotion
and--didst say 'twould mak