not like
better some other arrangement?'

'Of course there are other arrangements I should like better; but I see no
use in talking of them; they are not to be,' I answered.

'What other arrangements do you mean, my dear cheaile?' enquired Madame.
'You mean, I suppose, you would like better to go to Lady Knollys?'

'My uncle does not choose it at present; and except with his consent
nothing can be done!'

'He weel never consent, dear cheaile.'

'But he _has_ consented--not immediately indeed, but in a short time, when
his affairs are settled.'

'_Lanternes_! They will never be settle,' said Madame.

'At all events, for the present I am to go to France. Milly seems very
happy, and I dare say I shall like it too. I am very glad to leave
Bartram-Haugh, at all events.'

'But your uncle weel bring you back there,' said Madame, drily.

'It is doubtful whether he will ever return to Bartram himself,' I said.

'Ah!' said Madame, with a long-drawn nasal intonation, 'you theenk I hate
you. You are quaite wrong, my dear Maud. I am, on the contrary, very much
interested for you--I am, I assure you, dear a cheaile.'

And she laid her great hand, with joints misshapen by old chilblains, upon
the back of mine. I looked up in her face. She was not smiling. On the
contrary, her wide mouth was drawn down at the corners ruefully, as before,
and she gazed on my face with a scowl from her abysmal eyes.

I used to think the flare of that irony which lighted her face so often
immeasurably worse than any other expression she could assume; but this
lack-lustre stare and dismal collapse of feature was more wicked still.

'Suppose I should bring you to Lady Knollys, and place you in her charge,
what would a you do then for poor Madame?' said this dark spectre.

I was inwardly startled at these words. I looked into her unsearchable
face, but could draw thence nothing but fear. Had she made the same
overture only two days since, I think I would have offered her half my
fortune. But circumstances were altered. I was no longer in the panic of
despair. The lesson I had received from Tom Brice was fresh in my mind, and
my profound distrust of her was uppermost. I saw before me only a tempter
and betrayer, and said--

'Do you mean to imply, Madame, that my guardian is not to be trusted, and
that I ought to make my escape from him, and that you are really willing to
aid me in doing so?'

This, you see, was turning the tables upon her. I