her the trusty Jordas beginning the home ascent, "it is to be
taken first out of the car, and to my sister's sitting-room; the other
things Jordas will see to. I may be going for a little walk. But you
will at once carry up the turbot. Mrs. Carnaby's appetite is delicate."

The butler had his own opinion upon that interesting subject. But in her
presence it must be his own. Any attempt at enlargement of her mind by
exchange of sentiment--such as Mrs. Carnaby permitted and enjoyed--would
have sent him flying down the hill, pursued by square-toed men prepared
to add elasticity to velocity. Therefore Welldrum made a leg in silence,
and retreated, while his mistress prepared for her intended exploit. She
had her beaver hat and mantle ready by the shrubbery door--as a little
quiet postern of her own was called--and in the heavy standing desk, or
"secretary," of her private room she had stored a flat basket, or frail,
of stout flags, with a heavy clock weight inside it.

"Much better to drown the wretched thing than burn it," she had been
saying to herself, "especially at this time of year, when fires are weak
and telltale. And parchment makes such a nasty smell; Eliza might come
in and suspect it. But the Scarfe is a trusty confidant."

Mistress Yordas, while sure that her sister (having even more than
herself at stake) would approve and even applaud her scheme, was equally
sure that it must be kept from her, both for its own sake and for hers.
And the sooner it was done, the less the chance of disturbing poor
Eliza's mind.

The Scarfe is a deep pool, supposed to have no bottom (except, perhaps,
in the very bowels of the earth), upon one of the wildest head-waters of
the Tees. A strong mountain torrent from a desolate ravine springs forth
with great ferocity, and sooner than put up with any more stabs from
the rugged earth, casts itself on air. For a hundred and twenty feet the
water is bright, in the novelty and the power of itself, striking out
freaks of eccentric flashes, and even little sun-bows, in fine weather.
But the triumph is brief; and a heavy retribution, created by its
violence, awaits below. From the tossing turmoil of the fall two white
volumes roll away, with a clash of waves between them, and sweeping
round the craggy basin, meet (like a snowy wreath) below, and rush back
in coiling eddies flaked with foam. All the middle is dark deep water,
looking on the watch for something to suck down.

What better