e as could not be used by any one. I was that upset, your
ladyship, that I felt like I must come and explain myself."

"What _can_ be done?" exclaimed Lady Maria. "Emily, _do_ suggest
something."

"We can't even be sure," said the cook, "that Batch has what would suit
us. Batch sometimes has it, but he is the fishmonger at Maundell, and
that is four miles away, and we are short-'anded, your ladyship, now the
'ouse is so full, and not a servant that could be spared."

"Dear me!" said Lady Maria. "Emily, this is really enough to drive one
quite mad. If everything was not out of the stables, I know you would
drive over to Maundell. You are such a good walker,"--catching a gleam
of hope,--"do you think you could walk?"

Emily tried to look cheerful. Lady Maria's situation was really an awful
one for a hostess. It would not have mattered in the least if her
strong, healthy body had not been so tired. She was an excellent walker,
and ordinarily eight miles would have meant nothing in the way of
fatigue. She was kept in good training by her walking in town, Springy
moorland swept by fresh breezes was not like London streets.

"I think I can manage it," she said nice-temperedly. "If I had not run
about so much yesterday it would be a mere nothing. You must have the
fish, of course. I will walk over the moor to Maundell and tell Batch it
must be sent at once. Then I will come back slowly. I can rest on the
heather by the way. The moor is lovely in the afternoon."

"You dear soul!" Lady Maria broke forth. "What a boon you are to a
woman!"

She felt quite grateful. There arose in her mind an impulse to invite
Emily Fox-Seton to remain the rest of her life with her, but she was too
experienced an elderly lady to give way to impulses. She privately
resolved, however, that she would have her a good deal in South Audley
Street, and would make her some decent presents.

When Emily Fox-Seton, attired for her walk in her shortest brown linen
frock and shadiest hat, passed through the hall, the post-boy was just
delivering the midday letters to a footman. The servant presented his
salver to her with a letter for herself lying upon the top of one
addressed in Lady Claraway's handwriting "To the Lady Agatha Slade."
Emily recognised it as one of the epistles of many sheets which so often
made poor Agatha shed slow and depressed tears. Her own letter was
directed in the well-known hand of Mrs. Cupp, and she wondered what it
could con